UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


/ 


/ 


BY 
ARTHUR    C.    BENSON 

FELLOW  OF  MAGDALENE  COLLEGE 
CAMBRIDGE 

THE  UPTON    LETTERS 

FROM   A  COLLEGE 
WINDOW 

BESIDE  STILL  WATERS 

THE   ALTAR  FIRE 

THE     SCHOOLM^VSTER 

AT  LARGE 

THE  SILENT  ISLE 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

LEAVES  OF  THE  TREE 

CHILD  OF  THE  DAWN 

PAUL  THE  MINSTREL 

THY  ROD  AND  THY 

STAFF 

ALONG  THE  ROAD 
JOYOUS  CARD 


JOYOUS     CARD 


BY 

ARTHUR   CHRISTOPHER    BENSON 

FBLLuW    UK    M\bUALK.NK  CULLSGK.     CAMBltIlJi.li 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Cbc   Ivuickcrbockcr   Pre55 
1913 


COPYRICHT,    T913 
BY 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 


...     '.••.. 

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ALL     MY     F  R  I  E  N  D  S 

KNOWN    AND    VSKNOWN 

I   Dedicate   This  Book 


2C)31v6 


PREFACE 

It  is  a  harder  thing  than  it  ought  to  be  to 
write  openly  and  frankly  of  things  private 
and  sacred.  Sccretum  mcum  mihi! — "My 
secret  is  my  own!" — cried  St.  Francis  in  a 
harrowed  moment.  But  I  believe  that  the 
instinct  to  guard  and  hoard  the  inner  life  is 
one  that  ought  to  be  resisted.  Secrecy  seems 
to  me  now  a  very  uncivilised  kind  of  virtue, 
after  all !  We  have  all  of  us,  or  most  of  us,  a 
quiet  current  of  intimate  thought,  which 
flows  on,  gently  and  resistlessly,  in  the  back- 
ground of  our  lives,  the  volume  and  spring  of 
which  we  cannot  alter  or  diminish,  because 
it  rises  far  away  at  some  unseen  source,  like 
a  stream  which  flows  through  grassy  pastures, 
and  is  fed  by  rain  which  falls  on  unknown 
hills  from  the  clouds  of  heaven.  This  inner 
thought  is  hardly  aiTected  by  the  busy  incid- 
ents of  life — our  work,  our  engagements,  our 


vi  Preface 

public  intercourse;  but  because  it  represents 
the  self  which  we  are  always  alone  with,  it 
makes  up  the  greater  part  of  our  life,  and  is 
much  more  our  real  and  true  life  than  the 
life  which  we  lead  in  public.  It  contains  the 
things  which  we  feel  and  hope,  rather  than 
what  we  say;  and  the  fact  that  we  do  not 
speak  our  inner  thoughts  is  what  n;ore  than 
anything  else  keeps  us  apart  from  each  other. 
In  this  book  I  have  said,  or  tried  to  say, 
just  what  I  thought  and  as  I  thought  it;  and 
as  it  is  a  book  which  recommends  a  studied 
quietness  and  a  cheerful  serenity  of  life,  I 
have  put  my  feelings  to  a  vigorous  test,  by 
writing  it,  not  when  I  was  at  ease  and  in 
leisure,  but  in  the  very  thickest  and  fullest 
of  my  work.  I  thought  that  if  the  kind  of 
quiet  that  I  recommended  had  any  force  or 
weight  at  all,  it  should  be  the  sort  of  quiet 
which  I  still  could  realise  and  value  in  a  life 
full  of  engagements  and  duties  and  business, 
and  that  if  it  could  be  developed  on  a  back- 
ground of  that  kind,  it  might  have  a  worth 
which   it  could   not   have  if  it  were   gently 


Preface 


vu 


conceived  in  peaceful  days  and  untroubled 
hours. 

So  it  has  all  been  written  in  spaces  of  hard- 
driven  work,  when  the  day  never  seemed  long 
enough  for  all  I  had  to  do,  between  interrup- 
tions and  interviews  and  teaching  and  meet- 
ings. But  the  sight  and  scent  that  I  shall 
/'always  connect  with  it,  is  that  of  a  great  lilac- 
bush  which  stands  just  outside  my  study 
window,  and  which  day  by  day  in  this  bright 
and  chilly  spring  has  held  up  its  purple 
clusters,  overtopping  the  dense,  rich,  pale 
foliage,  against  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky; 
and  when  the  wind  has  been  in  the  north,  as 
it  has  often  been,  has  filled  my  room  with 
the  scent  of  breaking  buds.  How  often,  as 
I  wrote,  have  I  cast  a  sidelong  look  at  the 
lilac-bush!  How  often  has  it  appeared  to 
beckon  me  away  from  my  papers  to  a  freer 
and  more  fragrant  air  outside!  But  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  perhaps  obeying  the 
call  of  the  lilac  best — though  how  far  away 
from  its  freshness  and  sweetness! — if  I  tried 
to  make  my  own  busy  life,  which  I  do  not 


viii  Preface 

pretend  not  to  enjoy,  break  into  such  flower 
as  it  could,  and  give  out  what  the  old  books 
call  its  "spicery,"  such  as  it  is. 

Because  the  bloom,  the  colour,  the  scent, 
is  all  there,  if  I  could  but  express  them.  That 
is  the  truth!  I  do  not  claim  to  make  them, 
to  cause  them,  to  create  them,  any  more  than 
the  lilac  could  engender  the  scent  of  roses  or 
of  violets.  Nor  do  I  profess  to  do  faithfully 
all  that  I  say  in  my  book  that  it  is  well  to  do. 
That  is  the  worst,  and  yet  perhaps  it  is  the 
best,  of  books,  that  one  presents  in  them  one's 
hopes,  dreams,  desires,  visions,  more  than 
one's  dull  and  mean  performances.  A  Is  ich 
kann!    That  is  the  best  one  can  do  and  say. 

It  is  our  own  fault,  and  not  the  fault  of 
our  visions,  that  we  cannot  always  say  what 
we  think  in  talk,  even  to  our  best  friends. 
We  begin  to  do  so,  perhaps,  and  we  see  a 
shadow  gather.  Either  the  friend  does  not 
understand,  or  he  does  not  care,  or  he  thinks 
it  all  unreal  and  affected ;  and  then  there  falls 
on  us  a  foolish  shyness,  and  we  become  not 
what  we  are,  but  what  we  think  the  friend 


Preface 


IX 


would  like  to  think  us;  and  so  he  "gets  to 
know,"  as  he  calls  it,  not  what  is  really  there, 
but  what  he  chooses  should  be  there. 

But  with  pen  in  hand,  and  the  blessed 
white  paper  before  one,  there  is  no  need  to  be 
anything  in  the  world  but  what  one  is.  Our 
dignity  must  look  after  itself,  and  the  dignity 
'that  we  claim  is  worth  nothing,  especially  if 
it  is  falsely  claimed.  But  even  the  meanest 
flower  that  blows  may  claim  to  blossom  as  it 
can,  and  as  indeed  it  must.  In  the  democracy 
of  flowers,  even  the  dandelion  has  a  right  to  a 
place,  if  it  can  find  one,  and  to  a  vote,  if  it 
can  get  one;  and  even  if  it  cannot,  the  wind 
is  kind  to  it,  and  floats  its  arrowy  down  far 
afield,  by  wood  and  meadow,  and  into  the 
unclaimed  waste  at  last. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I. — Prelude    .... 

PACK 
I 

;  H. — Ideas         .... 

7 

III. — Poetry      .... 

II 

IV. — Poetry  and  Life 

i6 

•     v.— Art 

•       ^4 

VI. — Art  and  Morality 

•       39 

VII. — Interpretation 

•       52 

VIII. — Education 

6l 

IX.— Knowledge 

.       67 

X. — Growth    .... 

•        79 

XI. — Emotion    .... 

88 

XII. — Memory    .... 

.       98 

XIII — Retrospect 

.      Ill 

XIV. — Humour    .... 

.        121 

•  « 

Xll 

Contcnts 

CHAPTER 

PACK 

XV.- 

—Visions 

.      135 

XVI.- 

—Thought 

■      143 

XVII.- 

—Accessibility 

•      155 

XVIIL- 

—Sympathy 

.      168 

XIX.- 

—Science 

.      178 

XX. 

—Work    . 

« 

188 

XXI.- 

—Hope 

196 

XXII.- 

—Experience  . 

209 

XXIII. 

—Faith    . 

219 

XXIV.- 

—Progress 

231 

XXV. 

—The  Sense  of  Beauty 

241 

XXVI. 

—The  Principle  of  Beauty 

•     250 

XXVII.- 

—Life 

. 

•     259 

JOYOUS  CARD 


Joyous    Gard 


PRELUDE 

The  Castle  of  Joyous  Gard  in  the  Morte 
d' Arthur  was  Sir  Lancelot's  own  castle,  that 
he  had  won  with  his  own  hands.  It  was 
full  of  victual,  and  all  manner  of  mirth  and 
disport.  It  was  hither  that  the  wounded 
knight  rode  as  fast  as  his  horse  might  run, 
to  tell  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  misuse  and  capture 
of  Sir  Palamedes;  and  hence  Lancelot  often 
issued  forth,  to  rescue  those  that  were 
oppressed,  and  to  do  knightly  deeds. 

It  was  true  that  Lancelot  afterwards 
named  it  Dolorous  Gard,  but  that  was  because 
he  had  used  it  unworthily,  and  was  cast  out 
from  it;  but  it  recovered  its  old  name  again 


2  Prelude 

when  they  conveyed  his  body  thither,  after 
he  had  purged  his  fault  by  death.  It  was 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  when  they  set  out, 
that  the  Bishop  who  had  been  with  him  when 
he  died,  and  had  given  him  all  the  rites  that 
a  Christian  man  ought  to  have,  was  dis- 
pleased when  they  woke  him  out  of  his  sleep, 
because,  as  he  said,  he  was  so  merry  and  well 
at  ease.  And  when  they  inquired  the  reason 
of  his  mirth,  the  Bishop  said,  "Here  was 
Lancelot  with  me,  with  more  angels  than 
ever  I  saw  men  upon  one  day."  So  it  was 
well  with  that  great  knight  at  the  last ! 

I  have  called  this  book  of  mine  by  the 
name  of  Joyous  Card,  because  it  speaks  of  a 
stronghold  that  we  can  win  with  our  own 
hands,  where  we  can  abide  in  great  content, 
so  long  as  we  are  careful  not  to  linger  there 
in  sloth  and  idleness,  but  are  ready  to  ride 
abroad  at  the  call  for  help.  The  only  time 
in  his  life  when  Lancelot  was  deaf  to  that 
call,  was  when  he  shut  himself  up  in  the 
Castle  to  enjoy  the  love  that  was  his  single 
sin.     And  it  was  that  sin  that  cost  him  so 


The  Fortress  3 

dear,  and  lost  the  Castle  its  old  and  beauti- 
ful name.  But  when  the  angels  made  glad 
over  the  sinner  who  repented,  as  it  is  their 
constant  use  to  do,  and  when  it  was  only 
remembered  of  Lancelot  that  he  had  been 
a  peerless  knight,  the  name  came  back  to 
the  Castle;  and  that  name  is  doubtless  hidden 
How  under  some  name  of  commoner  use, 
whatever  and  wherever  it  may  be. 

In  the  Pilgrhns  Progress  we  read  how 
willing  Mr.  Interpreter  was,  in  the  House 
that  was  full  of  so  many  devices  and  surprises, 
to  explain  to  the  pilgrims  the  meaning  of  all 
the  fantastic  emblems  and  comfortable  sights 
that  he  showed  them.  And  I  do  not  think 
it  spoils  a  parable,  but  rather  improves  it, 
that  it  should  have  its  secret  meaning  made 
plain. 

The  Castle  of  Joyous  Card  then,  which 
each  of  us  can  use,  if  we  desire  it,  is  the 
fortress  of  beauty  and  joy.  We  cannot  walk 
into  it  by  right,  but  must  win  it;  and  in  a 
world  like  this,  where  there  is  much  that  is 
anxious  and  troublesome,  we  ought,  if  we 


4  Prelude 

can,  to  gain  such  a  place,  and  provide  it  with 
all  that  we  need,  where  we  may  have  our 
seasons  of  rest  and  refreshment.  It  must 
not  be  idle  and  selfish  joyance  that  we  take 
there;  it  must  be  the  interlude  to  toil  and 
fight  and  painful  deeds,  and  we  must  be  ready 
to  sally  out  in  a  moment  when  it  is  demanded 
of  us.  Now,  if  the  winning  of  sucK  a  fortress 
of  thought  is  hard,  it  is  also  dangerous  when 
won,  because  it  tempts  us  to  immure  our- 
selves in  peace,  and  only  observe  from  afar 
the  plain  of  life,  which  lies  all  about  the 
Castle,  gazing  down  through  the  high  win- 
dows; to  shut  out  the  wind  and  the  rain,  as 
well  as  the  cries  and  prayers  of  those  who  have 
been  hurt  and  dismayed  by  wrongful  usage. 
If  we  do  that,  the  day  will  come  when  we 
shall  be  besieged  in  our  Castle,  and  ride 
away  vanquished  and  disgraced,  to  do  what 
we  have  neglected  and  forgotten. 

But  it  is  not  only  right,  it  is  natural  and 
wise,  that  we  should  have  a  stronghold  in 
our  minds,  where  we  should  frequent  cour- 
teous and  gentle  and  knightly  company — 


The  Knightly  Spirit  5 

the  company  of  all  who  have  loved  beauty 
wisely  and  purely,  such  as  poets  and  artists. 
Because  we  make  a  very  great  mistake  if  we 
allow  the  conmion  course  and  use  of  the 
world  to  engulf  us  wholly.  We  must  not 
be  too  dainty  for  the  work  of  the  world,  but 
we  may  thankfully  believe  that  it  is  only  a 
mortal  discipline,  and  that  our  true  life  is 
elsewhere,  hid  with  God.  If  we  grow  to 
believe  that  life  and  its  cares  and  business 
are  all,  we  lose  the  freshness  of  life,  just  as 
we  lose  the  strength  of  life  if  we  reject  its 
toil.  But  if  we  go  at  times  to  our  Joyous 
Card,  we  can  bring  back  into  common  life 
something  of  the  grace  and  seemliness  and 
courtesy  of  the  place.  For  the  end  of  life  is 
that  we  should  do  humble  and  common 
things  in  a  fine  and  courteous  manner,  and 
mix  with  simple  affairs,  not  condescendingly 
or  disdainfully,  but  with  all  the  eagerness 
and  modesty  of  the  true  knight. 

This  little  book  then  is  an  account,  as  far 
as  I  can  give  it,  of  what  we  may  do  to  help 
ourselves    in    the    matter,    by    feeding    and 


6  Prelude 

nurturing  the  finer  and  sweeter  thought, 
which,  Hke  all  delicate  things,  often  perishes 
from  indifference  and  inattention.  Those  of 
us  who  are  sensitive  and  imaginative  and 
faint-hearted  often  miss  our  chance  of  better 
things  by  not  forming  plans  and  designs  for 
our  peace.  We  lament  that  we  afe  hurried 
and  pressed  and  occupied,  and  we  cry, 
"  Yet,  oh,  the  place  could  I  but  find!" 
But  that  is  because  we  expect  to  be  con- 
ducted thither,  without  the  trouble  of  the 
journey!  Yet  we  can,  like  the  wise  King 
of  Troy,  build  the  walls  of  our  castle  to 
music,  if  we  will,  and  see  to  the  fit  providing 
of  the  place;  it  needs  only  that  we  should 
set  about  it  in  earnest;  and  as  I  have  often 
gratefully  found  that  a  single  word  of  another 
can  fall  into  the  mind  like  a  seed,  and  quicken 
to  life  while  one  sleeps,  breaking  unexpect- 
edly into  bloom,  I  will  here  say  what  comes 
into  my  mind  to  say,  and  point  out  the  towers 
that  I  think  I  discern  rising  above  the  tangled 
forest,  and  glimmering  tall  and  shapely  and 
secure  at  the  end  of  many  an  open  avenue. 


II 

IDEAS 

There  are  certain  great  ideas  which,  if  we 
have  any  intelligence  and  thoughtfulncss  at 
all,  we  cannot  help  coming  across  the  track 
of,  just  as  when  we  walk  far  into  the  deep 
country,  in  the  time  of  the  blossoming  of 
flowers,  we  step  for  a  moment  into  a  waft  of 
fragrance,  cast  upon  the  air  from  orchard 
or  thicket  or  scented  field  of  bloom. 

These  ideas  are  very  various  in  quality; 
some  of  them  deliciously  haunting  and 
transporting,  some  grave  and  solemn,  some 
painfully  sad  and  strong.  Some  of  them 
seem  to  hint  at  unseen  beauty  and  joy,  some 
have  to  do  with  problems  of  conduct  and 
duty,  some  with  the  relation  in  which  we 
wish  to  stand  or  are  forced  to  stand  with 
other  human  beings;  some  are  questionings 


8  Ideas 

born  of  grief  and  pain,  what  the  meaning 
of  sorrow  is,  whether  pain  has  a  further  in- 
tention, whether  the  spirit  survives  the  life 
which  is  all  that  we  can  remember  of  exist- 
ence; but  the  strange  thing  about  all  these 
ideas  is  that  we  find  them  suddenly  in  the 
mind  and  soul;  we  do  not  seem  to  invent 
them,  though  we  cannot  trace  them;  and 
even  if  we  find  them  in  books  that  we  read 
or  words  that  we  hear,  they  do  not  seem 
wholly  new  to  us;  we  recognise  them  as 
things  that  we  have  dimly  felt  and  perceived, 
and  the  reason  why  they  often  have  so  mys- 
terious an  effect  upon  us  is  that  they  seem 
to  take  us  outside  of  ourselves,  further  back 
than  we  can  recollect,  beyond  the  faint 
horizon,  into  something  as  wide  and  great 
as  the  illimitable  sea  or  the  depths  of  sunset 
sky. 

Some  of  these  ideas  have  to  do  with  the 
constitution  of  society,  the  combined  and 
artificial  peace  in  which  human  beings  live, 
and  then  they  are  political  ideas;  or  they 
deal  with   such  things  as  numbers,   curves, 


Quality  9 

classes  of  animals  and  plants,  the  soil  of  the 
earth,  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  the  laws  of 
weight  and  mass,  and  then  they  are  scientific 
ideas;  some  have  to  do  with  right  and  wrong 
conduct,  actions  and  qualities,  and  then  they 
are  religious  or  ethical  ideas.  But  there  is 
a  class  of  thoughts  which  belong  precisely  to 
none  of  these  things,  but  which  are  concerned 
with  the  perception  of  beauty,  in  forms  and 
colours,  musical  sounds,  human  faces  and 
limbs,  words  majestic  or  sweet;  and  this 
sense  of  beauty  may  go  further,  and  may 
be  discerned  in  qualities,  regarded  not  from 
the  point  of  view  of  their  rightness  and 
justice,  but  according  as  they  are  fine  and 
noble,  evoking  our  admiration  and  our  desire; 
and  these  are  poetical  ideas. 

It  is  not  of  course  possible  exactly  to  clas- 
sify ideas,  because  there  is  a  great  overlap- 
ping of  them  and  a  \\'ide  interchange.  The 
thought  of  the  slow  progress  of  man  from 
something  rude  and  beastlike,  the  statement 
of  the  astronomer  about  the  swarms  of 
worlds  swimming  in  space,  may  awaken  the 


10  Ideas 

sense  of  poetry  which  is  in  its  essence  the 
sense  of  wonder.  I  shall  not  attempt  in 
these  few  pages  to  limit  and  define  the  sense 
of  poetry.  I  shall  merely  attempt  to  describe 
the  kind  of  effect  it  has  or  may  have  in  life, 
what  our  relation  is  or  may  be  to  it,  what 
claim  it  may  be  said  to  have  upon  us,  whether 
we  can  practise  it,  and  whether 'we  ought 
to  do  so. 


Ill 


POETRY 


I  WAS  reading  the  other  day  a  volume  of 
lectures  delivered  by  Mr.  Mackail  at  Oxford, 
as  Professor  of  Poetry  there.  Mr.  Mackail 
began  by  being  a  poet  himself;  he  married 
the  daughter  of  a  great  and  poetical  artist, 
Sir  Edward  Bume-Jones;  he  has  written 
the  Life  of  William  Morris,  which  I  think  is 
one  of  the  best  biographies  in  the  language, 
in  its  fine  proportion,  its  seriousness,  its 
vividness;  and  indeed  all  his  writing  has  the 
true  poetical  quality.  I  hope  he  even  con- 
trives to  communicate  it  to  his  departmental 
work  in  the  Board  of  Education ! 

He  says  in  the  preface  to  his  lectures: 
"Poetry  is  the  controller  of  sullen  care  and 
frantic  passion;  it  is  the  companion  in  youth 
of  desire  and  love;  it  is  the  power  which  in 

II 


1 2  Poetry 

later  years  dispels  the  ills  of  life — labour, 
penury,  pain,  disease,  sorrow,  death  itself; 
it  is  the  inspiration,  from  youth  to  age,  and 
in  all  times  and  lands,  of  the  noblest  human 
motives  and  ardours,  of  glory,  of  generous 
shame,  of  freedom  and  the  unconquerable 
mind," 

In  these  fine  sentences  it  will  be  seen  that 
Mr.  Mackail  makes  a  ver>'  high  and  majestic 
claim  indeed  for  poetry' :  no  less  than  the 
claim  of  art,  chivalry-,  patriotism,  love,  and 
religion  all  rolled  into  one!  If  that  claim 
could  be  substantiated,  no  one  in  the  world 
could  be  excused  for  not  putting  everything 
else  aside  and  pursuing  poetry,  because  it 
would  seem  to  be  both  the  cure  for  all  the  ills  of 
life,  and  the  inspirer  of  all  high-hearted  effort. 
It  would  be  indeed  the   one  thing  needful! 

But  what  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Mackail 
makes  quite  clear  is  whether  he  means  by 
poetr>'  the  expression  in  verse  of  all  these 
great  ideas,  or  whether  he  means  a  spirit 
much  larger  and  mightier  than  what  is  com- 
monly called  poetry ;  which  indeed  appears 


Poetry  and  Verse  13 

in  verse  only  at  a  single  glowing  point,  as  the 
electric  spark  leaps  bright  and  hot  between 
the  coils  of  dark  and  cold  wire. 

I  think  it  is  a  little  confusing  that  he  does 
not  state  more  definitely  what  he  means  by 
poetry.  Let  us  take  another  interesting  and 
suggestive  definition.  It  was  Coleridge  who 
said,  "  The  opposite  pf  poetry  is  not  prose  but 
science ;  the  opposite  of  prose  is  not  poetry 
but  verse."  That  seems  to  me  an  even  more 
fertile  statement.  It  means  that  poetry 
is  a  certain  sort  of  emotion,  which  may  be 
gentle  or  vehement,  but  can  be  found  both 
in  verse  and  prose;  and  that  its  opposite  is 
the  unemotional  classification  of  phenomena, 
the  accurate  statement  of  material  laws;  and 
that  poetry  is  by  no  means  the  rhythmical 
and  metrical  expression  of  emotion,  but 
emotion  itself,  whether  it  be  expressed  or  not. 

I  do  not  wholly  demur  to  Mr.  Mackail's 
statement,  if  it  may  be  held  to  mean  that 
poetr}^  is  the  expression  of  a  sort  of  rapturous 
emotion,  evoked  by  beauty,  whether  that 
beauty  is  seen  in  the  forms  and  colours  of 


14  Poetry 

earth,  its  gardens,  fields,  woods,  hills,  seas, 
its  sky-spaces  and  sunset  glories;  or  in  the 
beauty  of  human  faces  and  movements;  or 
in  noble  endurance  or  generous  action.  For 
that  is  the  one  essential  quality  of  poetry, 
that  the  thing  or  thought,  whatever  it  is, 
should  strike  the  mind  as  beautiful,  and 
arouse  in  it  that  strange,  and  wistful  longing 
which  beautiful  things  arouse.  It  is  hard  to 
define  that  longing,  but  it  is  essentially  a 
desire,  a  claim  to  draw  near  to  something 
desirable,  to  possess  it,  to  be  thrilled  by  it, 
to  continue  in  it;  the  same  emotion  which 
made  the  apostle  say  at  the  sight  of  his 
Lord  transfigured  in  glor}%  "Master,  it  is 
good  for  us  to  be  here!" 

Indeed  we  know  very  well  what  beauty  is, 
or  rather  we  have  all  within  us  a  standard 
by  which  we  can  instinctively  test  the  beauty 
of  a  sight  or  a  sound;  but  it  is  not  that  we 
all  agree  about  the  beauty  of  different  things. 
Some  see  a  great  deal  more  than  others,  and 
some  eyes  and  ears  are  delighted  and  pleased 
by  what  to  more  trained  and  fastidious  senses 


The  Sense  of  Beauty  15 

seems  coarse  and  shocking  and  vulgar.  But 
that  makes  little  difference;  the  point  is  that 
we  have  within  us  an  apprehension  of  a 
quality  which  gives  us  a  peculiar  kind  of 
delight;  and  even  if  it  does  not  give  us  that 
delight  when  we  are  dull  or  anxious  or  miser- 
able, we  still  know  that  the  quality  is  there. 
I  remember  how  when  I  had  a  long  and 
dreary  illness,  with  much  mental  depression, 
one  of  my  greatest  tortures  was  to  be  for 
ever  seeing  the  beauty  in  things,  but  not  to 
be  able  to  enjoy  it.  The  part  of  the  brain 
that  enjoyed  was  sick  and  uneasy;  but  I 
was  never  in  any  doubt  that  beauty  was 
there,  and  had  power  to  please  the  soul,  if 
only  the  physical  machinery  were  not  out  of 
gear,  so  that  the  pain  of  transmission  over- 
came the  sense  of  delight. 

Poetry  is  then  in  its  essence  the  discerning 
of  beauty;  and  that  beauty  is  not  only  the 
beauty  of  things  heard  and  seen,  but  may 
dwell  very  deep  in  the  mind  and  soul,  and 
be  stirred  by  visions  which  seem  to  have  no 
connection  with  outside  things  at  all. 


IV 

POETRY  AND  LIFE 

Now  I  will  try  to  say  how  poetry  enters 
into  life  for  most  of  us;  and  this  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  express,  because  one  can  look 
only  into  the  treasure  of  one's  own  experi- 
ence, wander  through  the  corridors  and  halls 
of  memory,  and  see  the  faded  tapestries,  the 
pictures,  and,  above  all,  the  portraits  which 
hang  upon  the  walls.  I  suppose  that  there 
are  many  people  into  whose  spirits  poetry 
only  enters  in  the  form  of  love,  when  they 
suddenly  see  a  face  that  they  have  beheld 
perhaps  often  before,  and  have  vaguely 
liked,  and  realise  that  it  has  suddenly  put 
on  some  new  and  delicate  charm,  some  curve 
of  cheek  or  floating  tress;  or  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  glance  that  was  surely  never 
there  before,  some  consciousness  of  a  secret 

i6 


The  Lover  17 

that  may  be  shared,  some  signal  of  half- 
alarmed  interest,  something  that  shows  that 
the  two  lives,  the  two  hearts,  have  some 
joyful  significance  for  each  other;  and  then 
there  grows  up  that  marvellous  mood  which 
men  call  love,  which  loses  itself  in  hopes  of 
meeting,  in  fears  of  coldness,  in  desperate 
desires  to  please,  to  impress;  and  there  arise 
too  all  sorts  of  tremulous  affectations,  which 
seem  so  petty,  so  absurd,  and  even  so  irri- 
tating, to  the  spectators  of  the  awakening 
passion;  desires  to  punish  for  the  pleasure 
of  forgiving,  to  withdraw  for  the  joy  of  being 
recalled;  a  wild  elated  drama  in  which  the 
whole  world  recedes  into  the  background, 
and  all  life  is  merged  for  the  lover  in  the 
half-sweet,  half-fearful  consciousness  of  one 
other  soul, 

Whose  lightest  whisper  moves  him  more 
Than  all  the  rangM  reasons  of  the  world. 

And  in  this  mood  it  is  curious  to  note  how 
inadequate  common  speech  and  ordinary 
language  appear,  to  meet  the  needs  of  ex- 


i8  Poetry  and  Life 

pression.  Even  young  people  with  no  liter- 
ary turn,  no  gift  of  style,  find  their  memory 
supplying  for  them  all  sorts  of  broken  echoes 
and  rhetorical  phrases,  picked  out  of  half- 
forgotten  romances;  speech  must  be  soigneux 
now,  must  be  dignified,  to  meet  so  uplifting 
an  experience.  How  oddly  like  a  book  the 
young  lover  talks,  using  so  naturally  the 
loud  inflated  phrases  that  seem  so  divorced 
from  common-sense  and  experience!  How 
common  it  is  to  see  in  law-reports,  in  cases 
which  deal  with  broken  engagements  of 
marriage,  to  find  in  the  excited  letters  which 
are  read  and  quoted,  an  irresistible  tendency 
to  drop  into  doggerel  verse!  It  all  seems 
to  the  sane  reader  such  a  grotesque  kind  of 
intoxication.  Yet  it  is  as  natural  as  the 
airs  and  graces  of  the  singing  canary,  the 
unfurling  of  the  peacock's  fan,  the  held 
breath  and  hampered  strut  of  the  turkey — 
a  tendency  to  assume  a  greatness  and  a  no- 
bility that  one  does  not  possess,  to  seem  im- 
pressive, tremendous,  desirable.  Ordinary 
talk   will   not   do;   it   must   rhyme,   it   must 


The  Joy  of  Art  19 

march,  it  must  glitter,  it  must  be  stuck  full 
of  gems;  accomplishments  must  be  i)araded, 
powers  must  be  hinted  at.  The  victor  must 
advance  to  triumph  with  blowTi  trumpets 
and  beaten  drums;  and  in  solitude  there  must 
follow  the  reaction  of  despair,  the  fear  that 
one  has  disgraced  oneself,  seemed  clumsy 
and  dull,  done  ignobly.  Every  sensitive 
emotion  is  awake;  and  even  the  most  serene 
and  modest  natures,  in  the  grip  of  passion, 
oan  become  suspicious  and  self-absorbed, 
because  the  passion  which  consumes  them 
is  so  fierce  that  it  shrivels  all  social  restraints, 
and  leaves  the  soul  naked,  and  bent  upon 
the  most  uncontrolled  self-emphasis. 

But  apart  from  this  urgent  passion,  there 
are  many  quieter  ways  in  which  the  same 
spirit,  the  same  emotion,  which  is  nothing 
but  a  sense  of  self-signiiicance,  comes  into 
the  soul.  Some  are  so  inspired  by  music, 
the  combinations  of  melodies,  the  intricate 
conspiracy  of  chords  and  ordered  vibrations, 
when  the  orchestra  is  at  v  ork,  the  great 
droning  horns   with   their  hollow  reluctant 


20  Poetry  and  Life 

voices  sustaining  the  shiver  and  ripple  of 
the  strings;  or  by  sweeter,  simpler  cadences 
played  at  evening,  when  the  garden  scents 
wafted  out  of  the  fragrant  dusk,  the  shaded 
lamps,  the  listening  figures,  all  weave  them- 
selves together  into  a  mysterious  tapestry 
of  the  sense,  till  we  wonder  what  strange 
and  beautiful  scene  is  being  ei\acted,  and 
wherever  we  turn,  catch  hints  and  echoes  of 
some  bewildering  and  gracious  secret,  just 
not  revealed ! 

Some  find  it  in  pictures  and  statues,  the 
mellow  liquid  pageant  of  some  old  master- 
hand,  a  stretch  of  windspent  moor,  with  its 
leaning  grasses  and  rifted  crags,  a  dark 
water  among  glimmering  trees  at  twilight, 
a  rich  plain  running  to  the  foot  of  haze-hung 
mountains,  the  sharp-cut  billows  of  a  racing 
sea;  or  a  statue  \\ith  its  shapely  limbs  and 
its  veiled  smile,  or  of  the  suspended  strength 
of  some  struggling  Titan:  all  these  hold  the 
same  inexplicable  appeal  to  the  senses,  indi- 
cating the  efforts  of  spirits  who  have  seen, 
and   loved,    and   admired,   and   hoped,   and 


The  Joy  of  Art  21 

desired,  striving  to  leave  some  record  of  the 
joy  that  thrilled  and  haunted,  and  almost 
tortured  them;  and  to  many  j^eople  the 
emotion  comes  most  directly  through  the 
words  and  songs  of  poetry,  that  tell  of  joys 
lived  through,  and  sorrows  endured,  of  hopes 
that  could  not  be  satisfied,  of  desires  that 
could  not  know  fulfilment;  pictures,  painted 
in  words,  of  scenes  such  as  we  ourselves  have 
moved  through  in  old  moods  of  delight, 
scenes  from  which  the  marvellous  alchemy 
of  memory  has  abstracted  all  the  base  and 
dark  elements,  leaving  only  the  pure  gold 
of  remembered  happiness — the  wide  upland 
with  the  far-off  plain,  the  garden  flooded 
with  sun,  the  grasses  crisped  with  frost,  the 
snow-laden  trees,  the  flaming  autumn  woods, 
the  sombre  forest  at  shut  of  day,  when  the 
dusk  creeps  stealthily  along  the  glimmering 
aisles,  the  stream  passing  clear  among  large- 
leaved  water-plants  and  spires  of  bloom; 
and  the  mood  goes  deeper  still,  for  it  echoes 
the  marching  music  of  the  heart,  its  glowing 
hopes,   its  longing  for   strength   and  purity 


22  Poetry  and  Life 

and   peace,    its   delight   in    the   nearness   of 
other  hearts,  its  wisdom,  its  nobility. 

But  the  end  and  aim  of  all  these  various 
influences  is  the  same;  their  power  lies  in 
the  fact  that  they  quicken  in  the  spirit  the 
sense  of  the  energy,  the  delight,  the  greatness 
of  life,  the  share  that  we  can  claim  in  them, 
the  largeness  of  our  own  indivfdual  hope 
and  destiny;  and  that  is  the  real  work  of 
all  the  thoughts  that  may  be  roughly  called 
poetical;  that  they  reveal  to  us  something 
permanent  and  strong  and  beautiful,  some- 
thing which  has  an  irrepressible  energy,  and 
which  outlines  itself  clearly  upon  the  dark 
background  of  days,  a  spirit  with  which 
we  can  join  hands  and  hold  deep  communi- 
cation, which  we  instinctively  feel  is  the 
greatest  reality  of  the  world.  In  such 
moments  we  perceive  that  the  times  when 
we  descend  into  the  meaner  and  duller  and 
drearier  businesses  of  life  are  interludes  in 
our  real  being,  into  which  we  have  to  descend, 
not  because  of  the  actual  worth  of  the  baser 
tasks,  but  that  we  may  practise  the  courage 


The  Quickened  Spirit  23 

and  the  hope  we  ought  to  bring  away  from 
the  heavenly  vision.  The  more  that  men 
have  this  thirst  for  beauty,  for  serene  energy, 
for  fulness  of  life,  the  higher  they  arc  in  the 
scale,  and  the  less  will  they  quarrel  \\'ith  the 
obscurity  and  humility  of  their  lives,  because 
they  are  confidently  waiting  for  a  purer, 
higher,  more  untroubled  life,  to  which  we 
are  all  on  our  way,  whether  we  realise  it  or  no! 


ART 


It  is  not  uncommon  for  me  to  receive  letters 
from  young  aspirants,  containing  poems, 
and  asking  me  for  an  opinion  on  their  merits. 
Such  a  letter  generally  says  that  the  writer 
feels  it  hardly  worth  while  to  go  on  writing 
poetry  unless  he  or  she  is  assured  that  the 
poems  are  worth  something.  In  such  cases 
I  reply  that  the  answer  lies  there!  Unless 
it  seems  worth  while,  unless  indeed  poetry 
is  the  outcome  of  an  irrepressible  desire  to 
express  something,  it  is  certainly  not  worth 
while  writing.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
desire  is  there,  it  is  just  as  well  worth  practis- 
ing as  any  other  form  of  artistic  expression. 
A  man  who  liked  sketching  in  water-colours 
would  not  be  restrained  from  doing  so  by 
the    fear    that    he    might    not    become    an 

24 


The  Practice  of  Poetry  25 

Academician  a  person  who  liked  picking  out 
tunes  on  a  piano  need  not  desist  because 
there  is  no  prospect  of  his  earning  money  by 
pkiying  in  public! 

Poetry  is  of  all  forms  of  literary  expression 
the  least  likely  to  bring  a  man  credit  or  cash. 
Most  intelligent  people  with  a  little  gift  of 
writing  have  a  fair  prospect  of  getting  prose 
articles  published.  But  no  one  wants  third- 
rate  poetry;  editors  fight  shy  of  it,  and 
volumes  of  it  are  unsaleable. 

I  have  myself  written  so  much  poetry, 
have  published  so  many  volumes  of  verse, 
that  I  can  speak  sympathetically  on  the 
subject.  I  worked  very  hard  indeed  at 
poetry  for  seven  or  eight  years,  wrote  little 
else,  and  the  published  volumes  form  only 
a  small  part  of  my  output,  which  exists  in 
many  manuscript  volumes.  I  achieved  no 
particular  success.  My  little  books  were 
fairly  well  received,  and  I  sold  a  few  hundred 
copies;  I  have  even  had  a  few  pieces  inserted 
in  anthologies.  But  though  I  have  wholly 
deserted  the  practice  of  poetry,  and  though 


26  Art 

I  can  by  no  means  claim  to  be  reckoned  a 
poet,  I  do  not  in  the  least  regret  the  years  I 
gave  to  it.  In  the  first  place  it  was  an  in- 
tense pleasure  to  write.  The  cadences,  the 
metres,  the  language,  the  rhymes,  all  gave 
me  a  rapturous  delight.  It  trained  minute 
observation — my  poems  were  mostly  nature- 
poems — and  helped  me  to  diserU;angle  the 
salient  points  and  beauties  of  landscapes, 
hills,  trees,  flowers,  and  even  insects.  Then 
too  it  is  a  very  real  training  in  the  use  of 
words;  it  teaches  one  what  words  are  musi- 
cal, sonorous,  effective;  while  the  necessity  of 
having  to  fit  words  to  metre  increases  one's 
stock  of  words  and  one's  power  of  applying 
them.  When  I  came  back  to  writing  prose, 
I  found  that  I  had  a  far  larger  and  more 
flexible  vocabular>'  than  I  had  previously 
possessed;  and  though  the  language  of 
poetry  is  by  no  means  the  same  as  that 
of  prose — it  is  a  pity  that  the  two  kinds  of 
diction  are  so  different  in  English,  because 
it  is  not  always  so  in  other  languages — yet 
it    made    the    writing    of    ornamental    and 


The  Wonder  of  Life  27 

elaborate  prose  an  easier  matter;  it  gave 
one  too  a  sense  of  form;  a  poem  must  have 
a  certain  balance  and  proportion;  so  that 
when  one  who  has  written  verse  comes  to 
write  prose,  a  subject  falls  easily  into  divi- 
sions, and  takes  upon  itself  a  certain  order 
of  course  and  climax. 

But  these  arc  only  consequences  and  re- 
sulting advantages.  The  main  reason  for 
writing  poetry  is  and  must  be  the  delight 
of  doing  it,  the  rapture  of  perceiving  a 
beautiful  subject,  and  the  pleasure  of  ex- 
pressing it  as  finely  and  delicately  as  one 
can.  I  have  given  it  up  because,  as  William 
Morris  once  said  of  himself,  "to  make  poetry 
just  for  the  sake  of  making  it  is  a  crime  for 
a  man  of  my  age  and  experience!" 

One's  feelings  lose  poetic  flow 
Soon  after  twenty-seven  or  so! 

One  begins  to  think  of  experience  in  a  differ- 
ent sort  of  way,  not  as  a  series  of  glowing 
points  and  pictures,  which  outline  them- 
selves radiantly  upon  a  duller  background, 


28  Art 

but  as  a  rich  full  thing,  like  a  great  tapestry, 
all  of  which  is  important,  if  it  is  not  all 
beautiful.  It  is  not  that  the  marvel  and 
wonder  of  life  is  less;  but  it  is  more  equable, 
more  intricate,  more  mysterious.  It  does 
not  rise  at  times,  like  a  sea,  into  great  crested 
breakers,  but  it  comes  marching  in  evenly, 
roller  after  roller,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach. 
And  then  too  poetry  becomes  cramped 
and  confined  for  all  that  one  desires  to  say. 
One  lived  life,  as  a  young  man,  rather  for 
the  sake  of  the  emotions  which  occasion- 
ally transfigured  it,  with  a  priestly  sense  of 
its  occasional  splendour;  there  was  not  time 
to  be  leisurely,  humorous,  gently  interested. 
But  as  w^e  grow  older,  we  perceive  that 
poetical  emotion  is  but  one  of  many  forces, 
and  our  sympathy  grows  and  extends  itself 
in  more  directions.  One  had  but  little 
patience  in  the  old  days  for  quiet,  prosaic, 
unemotional  people;  but  now  it  becomes 
clear  that  a  great  many  persons  live  life  on 
very  simple  and  direct  lines;  one  wants  to 
understand  their  point  of  view  better,   one 


Poetry  and  Youth  29 

is  conscious  of  the  merits  of  plainer  stuff; 
and  so  the  taste  broadens  and  deepens,  and 
becomes  Hke  a  brimming  river  rather  than 
a  leaping  crystal  fount.  Life  receives  a 
hundred  affluents,  and  is  tinged  with  many 
new  substances;  and  one  begins  to  see  that 
if  ,poetry  is  the  finest  and  sweetest  inter- 
pretation of  life,  it  is  not  always  the  com- 
pletest  or  even  the  largest. 

If  we  examine  the  lives  of  poets,  we  too 
ofiten  see  how  their  inspiration  flagged  and 
failed.  Milton  indeed  wrote  his  noblest 
verse  in  middle-age,  after  a  life  immersed  in 
affairs.  Wordsworth  went  on  writing  to 
the  end,  but  all  his  best  poetry  was  written 
in  about  five  early  years.  Tennyson  went 
on  to  a  patriarchal  age,  but  there  is  little 
of  his  later  work  that  bears  comparison 
with  what  he  wrote  before  he  was  forty. 
Browning  produced  volume  after  volume, 
but,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional 
fine  lyric,  his  later  work  is  hardly  more  than 
an  illustration  of  his  faults  of  writing. 
Coleridge     deserted     poetry     very      early; 


30  Art 

Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  all  died  comparatively 
young. 

The  Letters  of  Keats  give  perhaps  a  more 
vivid  and  actual  view  of  the  mind  and  soul 
of  a  poet  than  any  other  existing  document. 
One  sees  there,  naively  and  nobly  expressed, 
the  very  essence  of  the  poetical  nature,  the 
very  soil  out  of  which  poetry  flowers.  It  is 
wonderful,  because  it  is  so  wholly  sane, 
simple,  and  unaffected.  It  is  usual  to  say 
that  the  Letters  give  one  a  picture  of  rather 
a  second-rate  and  suburban  young  man, 
with  vulgar  friends  and  banal  associations, 
with  one  prodigious  and  matchless  faculty. 
But  it  is  that  very  background  that  con- 
stitutes the  supreme  force  of  the  appeal. 
Keats  accepted  his  circumstances,  his  friends, 
his  duties  with  a  singular  modesty.  He 
was  not  for  ever  complaining  that  he  was 
unappreciated  and  underestimated.  His 
commonplaceness,  when  it  appears,  is  not 
a  defect  of  quality,  but  an  eager  human 
interest  in  the  personalities  among  whom 
his  lot  was  cast.     But  every  now  and  then 


The  Letters  of  Keats  31 

there  swells  up  a  poignant  sense  of  passion 
and  beauty,  a  sacred,  haunting,  devouring 
fire  of  inspiration,  which  leaps  high  and 
clear  upon  the  homely  altar. 

Thus  he  writes:  "This  morning  poetry 
has  conquered — I  have  relapsed  into  those 
abstractions  which  are  my  only  life — I  feel 
escaped  from  a  new,  strange,  and  threaten- 
ing sorrow ....  There  is  an  awful  warmth 
about  my  heart,  like  a  load  of  immortality. " 
Or. again:  "I  feel  more  and  more  every  day, 
as  my  imagination  strengthens,  that  I  do 
not  live  in  this  world  alone,  but  in  a  thousand 
worlds."  And  again:  "I  have  loved  the 
principle  of  beauty  in  all  things. " 

One  sees  in  these  passages  that  there  is  not 
only  a  difference  of  force  and  passion,  but 
an  added  quality  of  some  kind  in  the  mind  of 
a  poet,  a  combination  of  fine  perception  and 
emotion,  which  instantaneously  and  instinc- 
tively translates  itself  into  words. 

For  it  must  never  be  forgotten  how  essen- 
tial a  part  of  the  poet  is  the  knack  of  words. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  there  are  hundreds  of 


32  Art 

people  who  are  haunted  and  penetrated 
by  a  Hvely  sense  of  beauty,  whose  emotions 
are  fiery  and  sweet,  but  who  have  not  just 
the  intellectual  store  of  words,  which  must 
drip  like  honey  from  an  overflowing  jar.  It 
is  a  gift  as  definite  as  that  of  the  sculptor 
or  the  musician,  an  exuberant  fertility  and 
swiftness  of  brain,  that  does  ngt  slowly  and 
painfully  fit  a  word  into  its  place,  but  which 
breathes  thought  direct  into  music. 

The  most  subtle  account  of  this  that  I 
know  is  given  in  a  passage  in  Shelley's 
Defejice  of  Poetry.  He  says:  "A  man  cannot 
say,  'I  will  compose  poetry' — the  greatest 
poet  even  cannot  say  it;  for  the  mind  in 
creation  is  like  a  fading  coal,  which  some 
invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind, 
awakes  to  transitory  brightness.  The  power 
arises  from  within,  like  the  colour  of  a 
flower  which  fades  and  changes  as  it  is 
developed,  and  the  conscious  portions  of  our 
nature  are  unprophetic  either  of  its  approach 
or  its  departure.  When  composition  begins, 
inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline." 


Great  Poetry  33 

That  I  believe  is  as  true  as  it  is  beautiful. 
The  best  poetry  is  written  in  a  sudden  rap- 
ture, and  probably  needs  but  little  recon- 
sideration or  retouching.  One  knows  for 
instance  how  the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  was 
scribbled  by  Keats  on  a  spring  morning,  in 
an  orchard  at  Hampstead,  and  so  little 
regarded  that  it  was  rescued  by  a  friend 
from  the  volume  into  which  he  had  crammed 
the  slips  of  manuscript.  Of  course  poets 
vary  greatly  in  their  method;  but  one  may 
be  sure  of  this,  that  no  poem  which  was  not 
a  great  poem  in  its  first  transcript,  ever 
becomes  a  great  poem  by  subsequent  hand- 
ling. There  are  poets  indeed  like  Rossetti 
and  FitzGerald  who  made  a  worse  poem  out 
of  a  better  by  scrupulous  correction;  and 
the  first  drafts  of  great  poems  are  generally 
the  finest  poems  of  all.  A  poem  has  some- 
times been  improved  by  excision,  notably  in 
the  case  of  Tennyson,  whose  abandoned 
stanzas,  printed  in  his  Life,  show  how  strong 
his  instinct  was  for  what  was  best  and  purest. 
A  great  poet,  for  instance,  never,  like  a  lesser 


34  Art 

poet,  keeps  an  unsatisfactory  stanza  for  the 
sake  of  a  good  line.  Tennyson,  in  a  fine 
homely  image,  said  that  a  poem  must  have  a 
certain  curve  of  its  own,  like  the  curve  of 
the  rind  of  a  pared  apple  thrown  on  the 
floor.  It  must  have  a  perfect  evolution  and 
progress,  and  this  can  sometimes  be  best 
arrived  at  by  the  omission  of  stanzas  in 
which  the  inconstant  or  flagging  mind  turned 
aside  from  its  design. 

But  it  is  certain  that  if  the  poet  gets  so 
much  into  the  habit  of  writing  poetry,  that 
even  when  he  has  no  sense  of  inspiration  he 
must  still  write  to  satisfy  a  craving,  the 
result  will  be  worthless,  as  it  too  often  was 
in  the  case  of  Wordsworth.  Because  such 
poems  become  literary  instead  of  poetical; 
and  literary  poetry  has  no  justification. 

If  we  take  a  book  like  Rossetti's  House 
of  Life,  we  shall  find  that  certain  sonnets 
stand  out  with  a  peculiar  freshness  and 
brightness,  as  in  the  golden  sunlight  of  an 
autumn  morning;  while  many  of  the  sonnets 
give    us    the    sense    of    slow    and    gorgeous 


Rossetti  35 

evolution,  as  if  contrived  by  some  poetical 
machine.  I  was  interested  to  find,  in  study- 
ing the  House  of  Life  carefully,  that  all  the 
finest  poems  are  early  work;  and  when  I 
came  to  look  at  the  manuscripts,  I  was 
rather  horrified  to  see  what  an  immense 
amount  of  alternatives  had  been  produced. 
There  would  be,  for  instance,  no  less  than 
eight  or  nine  of  those  great  slowly  moving 
words,  like  "incommunicable"  or  "impor- 
tunate" wTitten  down,  not  so  much  to  express 
an  inevitable  idea  as  to  fill  an  inevitable 
space ;  and  thus  the  poems  seem  to  lose  their 
pungency  by  the  slow  absorption  of  pain- 
fully sought  agglutinations  of  syllables,  with 
a  stately  music  of  their  own,  of  course,  but 
garnered  rather  than  engendered.  Rossetti 's 
great  dictum  about  the  prime  necessity  for 
poetry  being  "fundamental  brain  work"  led 
him  here  into  error.  The  brainwork  must 
be  fundamental  and  instinctive;  it  must  all 
have  been  done  before  the  poem  is  conceived ; 
and  very  often  a  poet  acquires  his  power 
through    sacrificing    elaborate  compositions 


36  Art 

which  have  taught  him  certainty  of  touch, 
but  are  not  in  themselves  great  poetry. 
Subsequent  brainwork  often  merely  clouds 
the  effect,  and  it  was  that  on  which  Rossetti 
spent  himself  in  vain. 

The  view  which  Keats  took  of  his  own 
Endymion  is  a  far  larger  and  bolder  one. 
"I  will  write  independently, "  *he  said.  "I 
have  written  independently  mithoiit  judgment. 
I  may  write  independently  and  with  jiidgfnent 
hereafter.  The  genius  of  poetry  must 
work  out  its  own  salvation  in  a  man.  It 
cannot  be  matured  by  law  and  precept, 
but  by  sensation  and  watchfulness  in 
itself." 

Of  course,  fine  craftsmanship  is  an  absolute 
necessity;  but  it  is  craftsmanship  which  is 
not  only  acquired  by  practice,  but  which 
is  actually  there  from  the  first,  just  as  Mozart, 
as  a  child  of  eight,  could  play  passages  which 
would  tax  the  skill  of  the  most  accomplished 
virtuoso.  It  was  not  learned  by  practice, 
that  swift  correspondence  of  eye  and  hand, 
any  more  than  the  little  swallow  learns  to  fly ; 


The  Desire  of  Expression       37 

it  knows  it  all  already,  and  is  merely  finding 
out  what  it  knows. 

And  therefore  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  man 
cannot  become  a  poet  by  taking  thought. 
He  can  perhaps  compose  impressive  verse, 
but  that  is  all.  Poetry  is,  as  Plato  says,  a 
divine  sort  of  experience,  some  strange 
blending  of  inherited  characteristics,  per- 
haps the  fierce  emotion  of  some  dumb 
ancestress  combining  with  the  verbal  skill 
of:  some  unpoetical  forefather.  The  receipt 
is  unknown,  not  necessarily  unknowable. 

Of  course  if  one  has  poetry  in  one's  soul, 
it  is  a  tremendous  temptation  to  desire  its 
expression,  because  the  human  race,  with 
its  poignant  desire  for  transfiguring  visions, 
strews  the  path  of  the  great  poet  with  bays, 
and  remembers  him  as  it  remembers  no 
other  human  beings.  What  would  one  not 
give  to  interpret  life  thus,  to  flash  the  loveli- 
ness of  perception  into  desirous  minds,  to 
set  love  and  hope  and  yearning  to  music, 
to  inspire  anxious  hearts  with  the  sense  that 
there  is  something  immensely  large,  tender, 

203176 


38  Art 

and  significant  behind  it  all!  That  is  what 
we  need  to  be  assured  of — our  own  signi- 
ficance, our  own  share  in  the  inheritance 
of  joy;  and  a  poet  can  teach  us  to  wait,  to 
expect,  to  arise,  to  adore,  when  the  circum- 
stances of  our  lives  are  wrapped  in  mist  and 
soaked  with  dripping  rain.  Perhaps  that 
is  the  greatest  thing  which  poetry  does  for 
us,  to  reassure  us,  to  enlighten  us,  to  send 
us  singing  on  our  way,  to  bid  us  trust  in  God 
even  though  He  is  concealed  behind  calamity 
and  disaster,  behind  grief  and  heaviness,  mis- 
interpreted to  us  by  philosophers  and  priests, 
and  horribly  belied  by  the  wrongful  dealings 
of  men. 


VI 

ART   AND   MORALITY 

There  is  a  perpetual  debate  going  on — one 
of  those  moulting  shuttlecocks  that  serve  to 
make  one's  battledore  give  out  a  merry 
sound — about  the  relation  of  art  to  morals, 
and  whether  the  artist  or  the  poet  ought  to 
attempt  to  teach  anything.  It  makes  a  good 
kind  of  debate,  because  it  is  conducted  in 
large  terms,  to  which  the  disputants  attach 
private  meanings.  The  answer  is  a  very 
simple  one.  It  is  that  art  and  morality  are 
only  beauty  realised  in  different  regions; 
and  as  to  whether  the  artist  ought  to  attempt 
to  teach  anything,  that  may  be  summarily 
answered  by  the  simple  dictum  that  no 
artist  ought  ever  to  attempt  to  teach  any- 
thing, with  which  must  be  combined  the 
fact  that  no  one  who  is  serious  about  any- 

39 


40  Art  and  Morality 

thing  can  possibly  help  teaching,  whether 
he  wishes  or  no! 

High  art  and  high  morality  are  closely 
akin,  because  they  are  both  but  an  eager 
following  of  the  law  of  beauty;  but  the 
artist  follows  it  in  visible  and  tangible  things, 
and  the  moralist  follows  it  in  the  conduct  and 
relations  of  life.  Artists  and  moralists  must 
be  for  cv^cr  condemned  to  misunderstand 
each  other,  because  the  votary  of  any  art 
cannot  help  feeling  that  it  is  the  one  thing 
worth  doing  in  the  world;  and  the  artist 
whose  soul  is  set  upon  fine  hues  and  forms 
thinks  that  conduct  must  take  care  of  itself, 
and  that  it  is  a  tiresome  business  to  analyse 
and  formulate  it;  while  the  moralist  who 
loves  the  beauty  of  virtue  passionately,  will 
think  of  the  artist  as  a  child  who  plays  with 
his  toys,  and  lets  the  real  emotions  of  life  go 
streaming  past. 

This  is  a  subject  upon  which  it  is  as  well 
to  hear  the  Greeks,  because  the  Greeks  were 
of  all  people  who  ever  lived  the  most  ab- 
sorbingly   interested    in    the    problems    of 


The  Greek  View  of  Art         41 

life,  and  judged  everything  by  a  standard 
of  beauty.  The  Jews,  of  course,  at  least 
in  their  early  history,  had  the  same  fiery 
interest  in  questions  of  conduct;  but  it 
would  be  as  absurd  to  deny  to  Plato  an 
interest  in  morals  as  to  withhold  the  title 
of  artist  from  Isaiah  and  the  author  of  the 
Book  of  Job! 

Plato,  as  is  well  known,  took  a  somewhat 
whimsical  view  of  the  work  of  the  poet.  He 
said  that  he  must  exclude  the  poets  from  his 
ideal  State,  because  they  were  the  prophets 
of  unreality.  But  he  was  thinking  of  a  kind 
of  man  very  different  from  the  men  whom 
we  call  poets.  He  thought  of  the  poet  as  a 
man  who  served  a  patron,  and  tried  to  gloze 
over  his  patron's  tyranny  and  baseness, 
under  false  terms  of  glory  and  majesty;  or 
else  he  thought  of  dramatists,  and  con- 
sidered them  to  be  men  who  for  the  sake  of 
credit  and  money  played  skilfully  upon  the 
sentimental  emotions  of  ordinary  people; 
and  he  fought  shy  of  the  writers  who  used 
tragic   passions    for    the   amusement    of    a 


42  Art  and  Morality 

theatre.  Aristotle  disagreed  with  Plato 
about  this,  and  held  that  poetry  was  not 
exactly  moral  teaching,  but  that  it  dis- 
posed the  mind  to  consider  moral  problems 
as  interesting.  He  said  that  in  looking  on  at 
a  play,  a  spectator  suffered,  so  to  speak,  by 
deputy,  but  all  the  same  learned  directly,  if 
unconsciously,  the  beauty  of  virtue.  When 
we  come  to  our  own  Elizabethans,  there  is 
no  evidence  that  in  their  plays  and  poetry 
they  thought  about  morals  at  all.  No  one 
has  any  idea  whether  Shakespeare  had  any 
religion,  or  what  it  was;  and  he  above  all 
great  writers  that  ever  lived  seems  to  have 
taken  an  absolutely  impersonal  view  of  the 
sins  and  affections  of  men  and  women.  No 
one  is  scouted  or  censured  or  condemned 
in  Shakespeare;  one  sees  and  feels  the  point 
of  view  of  his  villains  and  rogues;  one  feels 
with  them  that  they  somehow  could  hardly 
have  done  otherwise  than  they  did;  and  to 
effect  that  is  perhaps  the  crown  of  art. 

But  nowadays  the  poet,  with  whom  one 
may  include  some  few  novelists,  is  really  a 


The  Artist  as  Teacher  43 

very  independent  person.  I  am  not  now 
speaking  of  those  who  write  basely  and 
crudely,  to  please  a  popular  taste.  They 
have  their  reward;  and  after  all  they  are 
little  more  than  mountebanks,  the  end  of 
whose  show  is  to  gather  up  pence  in  the 
ring.  . 

But  the  poet  in  verse  is  listened  to  by 
few  people,  unless  he  is  very  great  indeed; 
and  even  so  his  reward  is  apt  to  be  intangible 
and  scanty;  while  to  be  deliberately  a  lesser 
poet  is  perhaps  the  most  unworldly  thing 
that  a  man  can  do,  because  he  thus  courts  de- 
rision; indeed,  if  there  is  a  bad  sign  of  the 
world's  temper  just  now,  it  is  that  men  will 
listen  to  politicians,  scientists,  men  of  com- 
merce, and  journalists,  because  these  can 
arouse  a  sensation,  or  even  confer  material 
benefits;  but  men  will  not  listen  to  poets, 
because  they  have  so  little  use  for  the  small 
and  joyful  thoughts  that  make  up  some  of 
the  best  pleasures  of  life. 

It  is  quite  true,  as  I  have  said,  that  no 
artist  ought  ever  deliberately  to  try  to  teach 


44  Art  aiul  Morality 

people,  because  that  is  not  his  business,  and 
one  can  only  be  a  good  artist  by  minding 
one's  business,  which  is  to  produce  beautiful 
things;  and  the  moment  one  begins  to  try 
to  produce  improving  things,  one  goes  off 
the  line.  But  in  England  there  has  been  of 
late  a  remarkable  fusion  of  morality  and 
art.  Ruskin  and  Browning  are  clear  enough 
proof  that  it  is  possible  to  be  passionately 
interested  in  moral  problems  in  an  artistic 
way;  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  true,  as  I 
have  said,  that  if  any  man  cares  eagerly  for 
beauty,  and  does  his  best  to  present  it,  he 
cannot  help  teaching  all  those  who  are 
searching  for  beauty,  and  only  require  to  be 
shown  the  way. 

The  work  of  all  real  teachers  is  to  make 
great  and  arduous  things  seem  simple  and 
desirable  and  beautiful.  A  teacher  is  not  a 
person  who  provides  short-cuts  to  know- 
ledge, or  who  only  drills  a  character  out  of 
slovenly  intellectual  faults.  The  essence  of 
all  real  teaching  is  a  sort  of  inspiration. 
Take  the  case  of  a  great  teacher,  like  Arnold 


The  Artist  as  Teacher  45 

or  Jowett;  Arnold  lit  in  his  pupils'  minds  a 
kind  of  fire,  which  was  moral  rather  than 
intellectual;  Jowett  had  a  power  of  putting 
a  suggestive  brilliancy  into  dull  words  and 
stale  phrases,  showing  that  they  were  but 
the  crystallised  formulae  of  ideas,  which  men 
had  found  wonderful  or  beautiful.  The 
secret  of  such  teaching  is  quite  incommuni- 
cable, but  it  is  a  very  high  sort  of  art.  There 
are  many  men  who  feel  the  inspiration  of 
knowledge  very  deeply,  and  follow  it  passion- 
ately, who  yet  cannot  in  the  least  communi- 
cate the  glow  to  others.  But  just  as  the 
great  artist  can  paint  a  homely  scene,  such 
as  we  have  seen  a  hundred  times,  and  throw 
into  it  something  mysterious,  which  reaches 
out  hands  of  desire  far  beyond  the  visible 
horizon,  so  can  a  great  teacher  show  that 
ideas  are  living  things  all  bound  up  with  the 
high  emotions  of  men. 

And  thus  the  true  poet,  whether  he  writes 
verses  or  novels,  is  the  greatest  of  teachers, 
not  because  he  trains  and  drills  the  mind, 
but  because  he  makes  the  thing  he  speaks  of 


46  Art  and  Morality 

appear  so  beautiful  and  desirable  that  we 
are  willing  to  undergo  the  training  and  drill- 
ing that  are  necessary  to  be  made  free  of  the 
secret.  He  brings  out,  as  Plato  beautifully 
said,  "the  beauty  which  meets  the  spirit  like 
a  breeze,  and  imperceptibly  draws  the  soul, 
even  in  childhood,  into  harmony  with  the 
beauty  of  reason."  The  work  of  the  poet 
then  is  "to  elicit  the  simplest  principles  of 
life,  to  clear  away  complexity,  by  giving  a 
glowing  and  flashing  motive  to  live  nobly  and 
generously,  to  renew  the  unspoiled  growth 
of  the  world,  to  reveal  the  secret  hope 
silently  hidden  in  the  heart  of  man." 

Rcnovahitur  id  aqiiila  juventus  tua — thy 
youth  shall  be  renewed  as  an  eagle — that 
is  what  we  all  desire!  Indeed  it  would 
seem  at  first  sight  that,  to  gain  happiness, 
the  best  way  would  be,  if  one  could,  to 
prolong  the  untroubled  zest  of  childhood, 
when  everything  was  interesting  and  ex- 
citing, full  of  novelty  and  delight.  Some 
few  people  by  their  vitality  can  retain  that 
freshness    of    spirit    all    their    life    long.     I 


Vitality  47 

remember  how  a  friend  of  R.  L.  Stevenson 
told  me,  that  Stevenson,  when  alone  in  Lon- 
don, desperately  ill,  and  on  the  eve  of  a 
solitary  voyage,  came  to  see  him ;  he  himself 
was  going  to  start  on  a  journey  the  following 
day,  and  had  to  visit  the  lumber-room  to  get 
out  his  trunks;  Stevenson  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  accompany  him,  and,  sitting  on 
a  broken  chair,  evolved  out  of  the  drifted 
accumulations  of  the  place  a  wonderful 
rortiance.  But  that  sort  of  eager  freshness 
we  most  of  us  find  to  be  impossible  as  we 
grow  older;  and  we  are  confronted  with  the 
problem  of  how  to  keep  care  and  dreariness 
away,  how  to  avoid  becoming  mere  trudg- 
ing wa}^arers,  dully  obsessed  by  all  we  have 
to  do  and  bear.  Can  we  not  find  some  medi- 
cine to  revive  the  fading  emotion,  to  renew 
the  same  sort  of  delight  in  new  thoughts  and 
problems  which  we  found  in  childhood  in  all 
unfamiliar  things,  to  battle  with  the  dreari- 
ness, the  daily  use,  the  staleness  of  life? 

The  answer  is  that  it  is  possible,  but  only 
possible  if  we  take  the  same  pains  about  it 


48  Art  and  Morality 

that  we  take  to  provide  ourselves  with  com- 
forts, to  save  money,  to  guard  ourselves 
from  poverty.  Emotional  poverty  is  what 
we  most  of  us  have  to  dread,  and  we  must 
make  investments  if  we  wish  for  revenues. 
We  are  many  of  us  hampered,  as  I  have 
said,  by  the  dreariness  and  dulncss  of  the 
education  we  receive.  But  even  that  is  no 
excuse  for  sinking  into  melancholy  bank- 
ruptcy, and  going  about  the  world  full  of 
the  earnest  capacity  for  woe,  disheartened 
and  disheartening. 

A  great  teacher  has  the  extraordinary 
power,  not  only  of  evoking  the  finest  capaci- 
ties from  the  finest  minds,  but  of  actually 
giving  to  second-rate  minds  a  belief  that 
knowledge  is  interesting  and  worth  atten- 
tion. What  we  have  to  do,  if  we  have 
missed  coming  under  the  influence  of  a  great 
teacher,  is  resolutely  to  put  ourselves  in 
touch  with  great  minds.  We  shall  not  burst 
into  flame  at  once  perhaps,  and  the  process 
may  seem  but  the  rubbing  of  one  dry  stick 
against    another;    one    cannot    prescribe    a 


The  Great  Teacher  49 

path,  because  we  must  advance  upon  the 
slender  line  of  our  own  interests;  but  we 
can  surely  find  some  one  writer  who  revives 
us  and  inspires  us;  and  if  we  persevere,  we 
find  the  path  slowly  broadening  into  a  road, 
while  the  landscape  takes  shape  and  design 
around  us.  The  one  thing  fortunately  of 
which  there  is  enough  and  to  spare  in  the 
world  is  good  advice,  and  if  we  find  ourselves 
helpless,  we  can  consult  some  one  who 
seems  to  have  a  view  of  finer  things,  whose 
delight  is  fresh  and  eager,  whose  handling 
of  life  seems  gracious  and  generous.  It  is 
as  possible  to  do  this,  as  to  consult  a  doctor 
if  we  find  ourselves  out  of  health;  and  here 
we  stiff  and  solitary  Anglo-Saxons  are  often 
to  blame,  because  we  cannot  bring  ourselves 
to  speak  freely  of  these  things,  to  be  impor- 
tunate, to  ask  for  help;  it  seems  to  us  at 
once  impertinent  and  undignified;  but  it  is 
this  sort  of  dreary  consideration,  which  is 
nothing  but  distorted  vanity,  and  this  still 
drearier  dignity,  which  withholds  from  us  so 
much  that  is  beautiful. 


50  Art  and  Morality 

The  one  thing  then  tliat  I  wish  to  urj^e  is 
that  we  should  take  up  the  pursuit  in  an 
entirely  practical  wa}';  as  Emerson  said, 
with  a  splendid  mixture  of  common-sense 
and  idealism,  "hitch  our  waggon  to  a  star." 
It  is  easy  enough  to  lose  ourselves  in  a  vague 
sentimentalism,  and  to  believe  that  only  our 
cramped  conditions  have  hindered  us  from 
developing  into  something  very  wonderful. 
It  is  easy  too  to  drift  into  helpless  material- 
ism, and  to  believe  that  dulness  is  the  natural 
lot  of  man.  But  the  realm  of  thought  is  a 
very  free  citizenship,  and  a  hundred  doors  will 
open  to  us  if  we  only  knock  at  them.  More- 
over, that  realm  is  not  like  an  over-populated 
country;  it  is  infinitely  large,  and  virgin 
soil ;  and  we  have  only  to  stake  out  our  claim ; 
and  then,  if  we  persevere,  we  shall  find  that 
our  Joyous  Card  is  really  rising  into  the  air 
about  us — where  else  should  we  build  our 
castles? — with  all  the  glory  of  tower  and 
gable,  of  curtain- wall  and  battlement,  terrace 
and  pleasaunce,  hall  and  corridor;  our  own 
self -built   paradise;   and   then   perhaps   the 


The  Castle  51 

knight,  riding  lonely  from  the  sunset  woods, 
will  turn  in  to  keep  us  company,  and  the 
wandering  minstrel  will  bring  his  harp;  and 
we  may  even  receive  other  visitors,  like  the 
three  that  stood  beside  the  tent  of  Abraham 
in  the  evening,  in  the  plain  of  Mamre,  of 
whom  no  one  asked  the  name  or  lineage, 
because  the  answer  was  too  great  for  mortal 
ears  to  hear. 


VII 

INTERPRETATION 

Is  the  secret  of  life  then  a  sort  of  literary 
rapture,  a  princely  thing,  only  possible 
through  costly  outlay  and  jealously  selected 
hours,  like  a  concert  of  stringed  instruments, 
whose  players  are  unknown,  bursting  on  the 
ear  across  the  terraces  and  foliaged  walls  of 
some  enchanted  garden?  By  no  means! 
That  is  the  shadow  of  the  artistic  nature, 
that  the  rare  occasions  of  life,  where  sound 
and  scent  and  weather  and  sweet  companion- 
ship conspire  together,  are  so  exquisite,  so 
adorable,  that  the  votary  of  such  mystical 
raptures  begins  to  plan  and  scheme  and 
hunger  for  these  occasions,  and  lives  in  dis- 
content because  they  arrive  so  seldom. 

No  art,  no  literature,  are  worth  anything 
at  all  unless  they  send  one  back  to  life  with 

52 


The  Mirror  53 

a  renewed  desire  to  taste  it  and  to  live  it. 
Sometimes  as  I  sit  on  a  sunny  day  writing  in 
my  chair  beside  the  window,  a  picture  of 
the  box-hedge,  the  tall  sycamores,  the  stone- 
tiled  roof  of  the  chapel,  with  the  blue  sky 
behind,  globes  itself  in  the  lens  of  my 
spectacles,  so  entrancingly  beautiful,  that  it 
is  almost  a  disappointment  to  look  out  on  the 
real  scene.  We  like  to  see  things  mirrored 
thus  and  framed,  we  strangely  made 
creatures  of  life;  why,  I  know  not,  except 
that  our  finite  little  natures  love  to  select 
and  isolate  experiences  from  the  mass, 
and  contemplate  them  so.  But  we  must 
learn  to  avoid  this,  and  to  realise  that  if  a 
particle  of  life,  thus  ordered  and  restricted, 
is  beautiful,  the  thing  itself  is  more  beautiful 
still.  But  we  must  not  depend  helplessly 
upon  the  interpretations,  the  skilled  reflec- 
tions, of  finer  minds  than  our  own.  If  we 
learn  from  a  wise  interpreter  or  poet  the 
quality  and  worth  of  a  fraction  of  life,  it  is 
that  we  may  gain  from  him  the  power  to  do 
the  same  for  ourselves  elsewhere;  we  must 


54  Interpretation 

learn  to  walk  alone,  not  crave,  like  a  helpless 
child,  to  be  for  ever  led  and  carried  in  kindly 
arms.  The  danger  of  culture,  as  it  is  un- 
pleasantly called,  is  that  we  get  to  love 
things  because  poets  have  loved  them,  and 
as  they  loved  them;  and  there  we  must  not 
stay;  because  we  thus  grow  to  fear  and 
mistrust  the  strong  flavours  and  sounds  of 
life,  the  joys  of  toil  and  adventure,  the  desire 
of  begetting,  giving  life,  drawing  a  soul  from 
the  unknown;  we  come  to  linger  in  a  half- 
lit  place,  where  things  reach  us  faintly 
mellowed,  as  in  a  vision,  through  enfolding 
trees  and  at  the  ends  of  enchanted  glades. 
This  book  of  mine  lays  no  claim  to  be  a 
pageant  of  all  life's  joys;  it  leaves  many 
things  untouched  and  untold;  but  it  is  a 
plea  for  this:  that  those  who  have  to  endure 
the  common  lot  of  life,  who  cannot  go  where 
they  would,  whose  leisure  is  but  a  fraction 
of  the  day,  before  the  morning's  toil  and 
after  the  task  is  done,  whose  temptation  it  is 
to  put  ever^'-thing  else  away  except  food  and 
sleep  and  work  and  anxiety,  not  liking  life 


The  Garden  55 

so  but  finding  it  so; — it  is  a  plea  that  such 
as  these  should  learn  how  experience,  even 
under  cramped  conditions,  may  be  finely  and 
beautifully  interpreted,  and  made  rich  by 
renewed  intention.  Because  the  secret  lies 
hid  in  this,  that  we  must  observe  life  in- 
tently, grapple  with  it  eagerly;  and  if  we 
have  a  hundred  lives  before  us,  we  can 
never  conquer  life  till  we  have  learned  to 
ride  above  it,  not  welter  helplessly  below  it. 
And  the  cramped  and  restricted  life  is  all 
the  grander  for  this,  that  it  gives  us  a  nobler 
chance  of  conquest  than  the  free,  liberal, 
wealthy,  unrestrained  life. 

In  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  a  little  square 
garden  is  described,  with  its  beds  of  flowers, 
its  orchard-trees.  The  beauty  of  the  place 
lies  partly  in  its  smallness,  but  more  sttll  in 
its  running  waters,  its  shadowy  wells,  where- 
in, as  the  writer  says  quaintly  enough,  are 
*' no  frogs,''  and  the  conduit-pipes  that  make 
a  "noise  full-liking."  And  again  in  that 
beautiful  poem  of  Tennyson's,  one  of  his 
earliest,  with  the  dew  of  the  morning  upon 


56  Interpretation 

it,    he    describes    The    Poet's    Mind    as    a 
garden : 

In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  m^ountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder:.     .     . 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love. 

That  is  a  power  which  we  all  have,  in 
some  degree,  to  draw  into  our  souls,  or  to 
set  running  through  them,  the  streams  of 
Heaven — for  like  water  they  will  run  in  the 
dullest  and  darkest  place  if  only  they  be  led 
thither;  and  the  lower  the  place,  the  stronger 
the  stream!  I  am  careful  not  to  prescribe 
the  source  too  narrowly,  for  it  must  be  to  our 
own  liking,  and  to  our  own  need.  And  so  I 
will  not  say  "  Love  this  and  that  picture,  read 
this  and  that  poet!"  because  it  is  just  thus, 
by  following  direction  too  slavishly,  that  we 
lose  our  own  particular  inspiration.     Indeed 


The  Epicure  of  Life  57 

I  care  very  little  about  fineness  of  taste, 
fastidious  critical  rejections,  scoffs  and  sneers 
at  particular  fashions  and  details.  One 
knows  the  epicure  of  life,  the  man  who 
withdraws  himself  more  and  more  from  the 
throng,  cannot  bear  to  find  himself  in  dull 
company,  reads  fewer  and  fewer  books,  can 
hardly  eat  and  drink  unless  all  is  exactly 
what  he  approves;  till  it  becomes  almost 
wearisome  to  be  with  him,  because  it  is  such 
ailxious  and  scheming  work  to  lay  out  every- 
thing to  please  him,  and  because  he  will 
never  take  his  chance  of  anything,  nor  bestir 
himself  to  make  anything  out  of  a  situation 
which  has  the  least  commonness  or  dulness  in 
it.  Of  course  only  with  the  command  of 
wealth  is  such  life  possible;  but  the  more 
delicate  such  a  man  grows,  the  larger  and 
finer  his  maxims  become,  and  the  more  he 
casts  away  from  his  philosophy  the  need  of 
practising  anything.  One  must  think,  such 
men  say,  clearly  and  finely,  one  must  dis- 
approve freely,  one  must  live  only  with  those 
whom  one  can  admire  and  love;  till  they  be- 


58  Interpretation 

come  at  last  like  one  of  those  sad  ascetics,  who 
spent  their  time  on  the  top  of  pillars,  and  for 
ever  drew  up  stones  from  below  to  make  the 
pillar  higher  yet. 

One  is  at  liberty  to  mistrust  whatever 
makes  one  isolated  and  superior;  not  of 
course  that  one's  life  need  be  spent  in  a  sort 
of  diffuse  sociability;  but  one  must  practise 
an  ease  that  is  never  embarrassed,  a  frank- 
ness that  is  never  fastidious,  a  simplicity 
that  is  never  abashed;  and  behind  it  all 
must  spring  the  living  waters,  with  the 
clearness  of  the  sky  and  the  cleanness  of 
the  hill  about  them,  running  still  swiftly 
and  purely  in  our  narrow  garden-ground, 
and  meeting  the  kindred  streams  that  flow 
softly  in  many  other  glad  and  desirous 
hearts. 

In  the  beautiful  old  English  poem,  The 
Pearl,  where  the  dreamer  seems  to  be  in- 
structed by  his  dead  daughter  Marjory  in 
the  heavenly  wisdom,  she  tells  him  that 
"all  the  souls  of  the  blest  are  equal  in 
happiness — that    they    are    all    kings    and 


True  Dignity  59 

queens."'  That  is  a  heavenly  kind  of  king- 
ship, when  there  arc  none  to  be  ruled  or 
chidden,  none  to  labour  and  serve;  but  it 
means  the  fine  frankness  and  serenity  of . 
mind  which  comes  of  kingship,  the  perfect 
ease  and  dignity  which  springs  from  not  hav- 
ing to  think  of  dignity  or  pre-eminence  at  all. 
Long  ago  I  remember  how  I  was  sent  for 
to  talk  with  Queen  Victoria  in  her  age,  and 
how  much  I  dreaded  being  led  up  to  her  by 
a  'majestic  lord-in-waiting;  she  sate  there, 
a  little  quiet  lady,  so  plainly  dressed,  so 
simple,  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  lap, 
her  sanguine  complexion,  her  silvery  hair, 
yet  so  crowned  with  dim  history  and  tradi- 
tion, so  great  as  to  be  beyond  all  pomp  or 
ceremony,  yet  wearing  the  awe  and  majesty 
of  race  and  fame  as  she  wore  her  plain  dress. 
She  gave  me  a  little  nod  and  smile,  and 
began  at  once  to  talk  in  the  sweet  clear 
voice  that  was  like  the  voice  of  a  child. 
Then   came   my  astonishment.     She   knew, 

»  See  Professor  W.  P.  Ker's  English  Literature,  Mediceval, 
p.  194. 


6o  Interpretation 

it  seemed,  all  about  me  and  my  doings,  and 
the  doings  of  my  relations  and  friends — not 
as  if  she  had  wished  to  be  prepared  to  sur- 
prise me;  but  because  her  mothedy  heart 
had  wanted  to  know,  and  had  been  unable 
to  forget.  The  essence  of  that  charm,  which 
flooded  all  one's  mind  with  love  and  loyalty, 
was  not  that  she  was  great,  but  that  she  was 
entirely  simple  and  kind ,  because  she  loved, 
not  her  great  part  in  life,  but  life  itself. 

That  kingship  and  queenship  is  surely 
not  out  of  the  reach  of  any  of  us;  it  depends 
upon  two  things:  one,  that  we  keep  our 
minds  and  souls  fresh  with  the  love  of  life, 
which  is  the  very  dew  of  heaven;  and  the 
other  that  we  claim  not  rights  but  duties, 
our  share  in  life,  not  a  control  over  it;  if  all 
that  we  claim  is  not  to  rule  others,  but  to  be 
interested  in  them,  if  we  will  not  be  shut  out 
from  love  and  care,  then  the  sovereignty  is 
in  sight,  and  the  nearer  it  comes  the  less 
shall  we  recognise  it;  for  the  only  dignity 
worth  the  name  is  that  which  we  do  not 
know  to  be  there. 


VIII 

EDUCATION 

4 

It  is  clear  that  the  progress  of  the  individual 
and  the  world  alike  depends  upon  the 
quickening  of  ideas.  All  civilisation,  all  law, 
all  order,  all  controlled  and  purposeful  life, 
will  be  seen  to  depend  on  these  ideas  and 
emotions.  The  growing  conception  of  the 
right  of  every  individual  to  live  in  some 
degree  of  comfort  and  security  is  nothing 
but  the  taking  shape  of  these  ideas  and 
emotions;  for  the  end  of  all  civilisation  is  to 
ensure  that  there  shall  be  freedom  for  all 
from  debasing  and  degrading  conditions, 
and  that  is  perhaps  as  far  as  we  have  hitherto 
advanced;  but  the  further  end  in  sight  is  to 
set  all  men  and  women  free  to  some  extent 
from  hopeless  drudgery,  to  give  them  leisure, 
to  provide  them  with  tastes  and  interests; 

6i 


62  Education 

and  further  still,  to  contrive,  if  possible,  that 
human  beings  shall  not  be  bom  into  the 
world  of  tainted  parentage,  and  thus  to 
stamp  out  the  tyranny  of  disease  and  imbe- 
cility and  criminal  instinct.  More  and  more 
does  it  become  clear  that  all  the  off-scourings 
and  failures  of  civilisation  are  the  outcome 
of  diseased  brains  and  nerves,  and  that  self- 
control  and  vigour  are  the  results  of  nature 
rather  than  nurture.  All  this  is  now  steadily 
in  sight.  The  aim  is  personal  freedom,  the 
freedom  which  shall  end  where  another's 
freedom  begins;  but  we  recognise  now  that 
it  is  no  use  legislating  for  social  and  political 
freedom,  if  we  allow  the  morally  deficient 
to  beget  offspring  for  whom  moral  freedom 
is  an  impossibility.  And  perhaps  the  best 
hope  of  the  race  lies  in  firmly  facing  this 
problem. 

But,  as  I  say,  we  have  hardly  entered  upon 
this  stage.  We  have  to  deal  with  things  as 
they  are,  with  many  natures  tainted  by 
moral  feebleness,  by  obliquity  of  vision,  by 
lack   of   proportion.     The   hope   at   present 


Arousing  Interest  63 

lies  in  the  endeavour  to  find  some  source  of 
inspiration,  in  a  determination  not  to  let 
men  and  women  grow  up  with  fine  emotions 
atrophied;  and  here  the  whole  system  of 
education  is  at  fault.  It  is  all  on  the  Hnes 
of  an  intellectual  gymnastic;  little  or  nothing 
is  done  to  cultivate  imagination,  to  feed  the 
sense  of  beauty,  to  arouse  interest,  to  awaken 
the  sleeping  sense  of  delight.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  all  these  emotions  are  dormant 
in- many  people.  One  has  only  to  reflect  on 
the  influence  of  association,  to  know  how 
children  who  grow  up  in  a  home  atmosphere 
which  is  fragrant  with  beautiful  influences, 
generally  carry  on  those  tastes  and  habits 
into  later  life.  But  our  education  tends 
neither  to  make  men  and  women  efficient  for 
the  simple  duties  of  life,  nor  to  arouse  the 
gentler  energies  of  the  spirit.  "You  must 
remember  you  are  translating  poetry,"  said 
a  conscientious  master  to  a  boy  who  was 
construing  Virgil.  "It's  not  poetry  when 
I  translate  it!"  said  the  boy.  I  look  back 
at  my  own  school-days,  and  remember  the 


64  Hducation 

bare  stately  class-rooms,  the  dry  wind  of 
intellect,  the  dull  murmur  of  work,  neither 
enjoyed  nor  understood;  and  I  reflect  how 
small  a  part  any  fanciful  or  beautiful  or 
leisurely  interpretation  ever  played  in  our 
mental  exercises;  the  first  and  last  con- 
dition of  any  fine  sort  of  labour — that  it 
should  be  enjoyed — was  put  resolutely  out 
of  sight,  not  so  much  as  an  impossible  ad- 
junct, as  a  thing  positively  enervating  and 
contemptible.  Yet  if  one  subtracts  the 
idea  of  enjoyment  from  labour,  there  is 
no  beauty-loving  spirit  which  does  not  in- 
stantly and  rightly  rebel.  There  must  be 
labour,  of  course,  effective,  vigorous,  brisk 
labour,  overcoming  difficulties,  mastering 
uncongenial  details;  but  the  end  should 
be  enjoyment;  and  it  should  be  made  clear 
that  the  greater  the  mastery,  the  richer  the 
enjoyment;  and  that  if  one  cannot  enjoy  a 
thing  without  mastering  it,  neither  can  one 
ever  really  master  it  without  enjoying  it. 

What  we  need,  in  education,  is  some  sense 
of  far  horizons  and  beautiful  prospects,  some 


The  Wonders  of  Life  65 

consciousness  of  the  largeness  and  mystery 
and  wonder  of  life.  To  take  a  simple  in- 
stance, in  my  own  education.  I  read  the 
great  books  of  Greece  and  Rome;  but  I 
knew  hardly  anything  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  social  life,  the  human  activity  out  of 
which  they  proceeded.  One  did  not  think 
of  the  literature  of  the  Greeks  as  of  a  foun- 
tain of  eager  beauty  springing  impulsively 
and  instinctively  out  of  the  most  ardent, 
gracious,  sensitive  life  that  any  nation  has 
ever  lived.  One  knew  little  of  the  stern, 
businesslike,  orderly,  grasping  Roman  tem- 
perament, in  which  poetry  flowered  so  rarely, 
and  the  arts  not  at  all,  until  the  national 
fibre  began  to  weaken  and  grow  dissolute. 
One  studied  history  in  those  days,  as  if  one 
was  mastering  statute-books,  blue-books, 
gazettes,  office-files;  one  never  grasped  the 
clash  of  individualities,  or  the  real  interests 
and  tastes  of  the  nations  that  fought  and 
made  laws  and  treaties.  It  was  all  a  dealing 
with  records  and  monuments,  just  the  things 
that  happened  to  survive  decay — as  though 


It 


66  Education 

one's  study  of  primitive  man  were  to  begin 
and  end  with  sharpened  flints! 

What  we  have  now  to  do,  in  this  next 
generation,  is  not  to  leave  education  a  dry 
conspectus  of  facts  and  processes,  but  to  try 
rather  that  children  should  learn  something 
of  the  temper  and  texture  of  the  world  at 
certain  vivid  points  of  its  history;  and  above 
all  perceive  something  of  the  nature  of  the 
world  as  it  now  is,  its  countries,  its  nation- 
alities, its  hopes,  its  problems.  That  is  the 
aim,  that  we  should  realise  what  kind  of  a 
thing  life  is,  how  bright  and  yet  how  narrow 
a  flame,  how  bounded  by  darkness  and 
mystery,  and  yet  how  vivid  and  active 
within  its  little  space  of  sun. 


IX 

KNOWLEDGE 

f 

''Knowledge  is  power,"  says  the  old 
adage;  and  yet  so  meaningless  now,  in  many 
respects,  do  the  words  sound,  that  it  is  hard 
eVfen  to  recapture  the  mental  outlook  from 
which  it  emanated.  I  imagine  that  it  dates 
from  a  time  when  knowledge  meant  an 
imagined  acquaintance  with  magical  secrets, 
short  cuts  to  wealth,  health,  influence,  fame. 
Even  now  the  application  of  science  to  the 
practical  needs  of  man  has  some  semblance 
of  power  about  it;  the  telephone,  wireless 
telegraphy,  steam  engines,  anaesthetics — 
these  are  powerful  things.  But  no  man  is 
profited  by  his  discoveries;  he  cannot  keep 
them  to  himself,  and  use  them  for  his  own 
private  ends.  The  most  he  can  do  is  to  make 
a  large  fortune  out  of  them.     And  as  to  other 

67 


68  Knowledge 

kinds  of  knowledge,  erudition,  learning,  how 
do  they  profit  the  possessor?  "No  one 
knows  anything  nowadays, "  said  an  eminent 
man  to  me  the  other  day;  "it  is  not  worth 
while!  The  most  learned  man  is  the  man 
who  knows  best  where  to  find  things." 
There  still  appears,  in  works  of  fiction, 
with  pathetic  persistence,  a  belief  that  learn- 
ing still  lingers  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge; 
those  marvellous  Dons,  who  appear  in  the 
pages  of  novels,  men  who  read  folios  all  the 
morning  and  drink  port  all  the  evening, 
where  are  they  in  reality?  Not  at  Cam- 
bridge, certainly.  I  would  travel  many 
miles,  I  would  travel  to  Oxford,  if  I  thought 
I  could  find  such  an  adorable  figure.  But 
the  Don  is  now  a  brisk  and  efficient  man  of 
business,  a  paterfamilias  with  provision  to 
make  for  his  family.  He  has  no  time  for 
folios  and  no  inclination  for  port.  Exami- 
nation papers  in  the  morning,  and  a  glass  of 
lemonade  at  dinner,  are  the  notes  of  his 
leisure  days.  The  belief  in  uncommercial 
knowledge  has  indeed  died  out  of  England. 


American  Culture  69 

Eton,  as  Mr.  Birrell  said,  can  hardly  be 
described  as  a  place  of  education;  and  to 
what  extent  can  Oxford  and  Cambridge  be 
described  as  places  of  literary  research?  A 
learned  man  is  apt  to  be  considered  a  bore, 
and  the  highest  compliment  that  can  be  paid 
hiiti  is  that  one  would  not  suspect  him  of 
being  learned. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  land  in  which  know- 
ledge is  respected,  and  that  is  America.  If 
we  do  not  take  care,  the  high  culture  will 
desert  our  shores,  like  Astraea's  flying  hem, 
and  take  her  way  Westward,  with  the  course 
of  Empire. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  told  me  that  he 
struggled  up  a  church-tower  in  Florence,  a 
great  lean,  pale  brick  minaret,  designed,  I 
suppose,  to  be  laminated  with  marble,  but 
cheerfully  abandoned  to  bareness;  he  came 
out  on  to  one  of  those  high  balustraded  bal- 
conies, which  in  mediaeval  pictures  seem  to 
have  been  always  crowded  with  fantastically 
dressed  persons,  and  are  now  only  visited  by 
tourists.     The    silvery    city    lay    outspread 


7^  Kno\vledi4;e 


is 


beneath  him,  with  the  rapid  mud-stained 
river  passing  to  the  plain,  the  hill-side 
crowded  with  villas  embowered  in  green 
gardens,  and  the  sad-coloured  hills  behind. 
While  he  was  gazing,  two  other  tourists, 
young  Americans,  came  quietly  out  on  to 
the  balcony,  a  brother  and  sistef,  he  thought. 
They  looked  out  for  a  time  in  silence,  leaning 
on  the  parapet;  and  then  the  brother  said 
softly,  "How  much  we  should  enjoy  all  this, 
if  we  were  not  so  ignorant!"  Like  all 
Americans,  they  wanted  to  know!  It  was 
not  enough  for  them  to  see  the  high  houses, 
the  fantastic  towers,  the  great  blind  blocks 
of  mediaeval  palaces,  thrust  so  grimly  out 
above  the  house-tops.  It  all  meant  life  and 
history,  strife  and  sorrow,  it  all  needed 
interpreting  and  transfiguring  and  repeo- 
pling;  without  that  it  was  dumb  and  silent, 
vague  and  bewildering.  One  does  not 
know  whether  to  admire  or  to  sigh! 
Ought  one  not  to  be  able  to  take  beauty  as 
it  comes?  What  if  one  does  not  want  to 
know  these  things,  as  Shelley    said  to  his 


Patriotism  71 

lean  and  embarrassed  tutor  at  Oxford?  If 
knowledge  makes  the  scene  glow  and  live, 
enriches  it,  illuminates  it,  it  is  well.  And 
perhaps  in  England  we  learn  to  live  so 
incuriously  and  naturally  among  historical 
things  that  we  forget  the  existence  of  tradi- 
tion, and  draw  it  in  with  the  air  we  breathe, 
just  realising  it  as  a  pleasant  background 
and  not  caring  to  investigate  it  or  master  it. 
It  is  hard  to  say  what  we  lose  by  ignorance,  it 
is  hard  to  say  what  we  should  gain  by  know- 
ledge. Perhaps  to  want  to  know  would  be 
a  sign  of  intellectual  and  emotional  activity; 
but  it  could  not  be  done  as  a  matter  of  duty — 
only  as  a  matter  of  enthusiasm. 

The  poet  Clough  once  said,  "It  makes  a 
great  difference  to  me  that  Magna  Charta 
was  signed  at  Runnymede,  but  it  does  not 
make  much  difference  to  me  to  know  that  it 
was  signed. "  The  fact  that  it  was  so  signed 
affects  our  liberties,  the  knowledge  only 
affects  us,  if  it  inspires  us  to  fresh  desire  of 
liberty,  whatever  liberty  may  be.  It  is  even 
more  important  to  be  interested  in  life  than 


72  Knowledge 

to  be  interested  in  past  lives.  It  was  Scott, 
I  think,  who  asked  indignantly, 

Lives  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land? 

I  do  not  know  how  it  may  beMn  Scotland! 
Dr.  Johnson  once  said  rudely  that  the  finest 
prospect  a  Scotchman  ever  saw  was  the  high- 
road that  might  take  him  to  England;  but  I 
should  think  that  if  Scott's  is  a  fair  test  of 
deadness  of  soul,  there  must  be  a  good  many 
people  in  England  who  are  as  dead  as  door- 
nails! The  Englishman  is  not  very  imagi- 
native; and  a  farmer  who  was  accustomed 
to  kneel  down  like  Antaeus,  and  kiss  the 
soil  of  his  orchard,  would  be  thought  an 
eccentric! 

Shall  we  then  draw  a  cynical  conclusion 
from  all  this,  and  say  that  knowledge  is  a 
useless  burden;  or  if  we  think  so,  why  do 
we  think  it?  I  have  very  little  doubt  in  my 
own  mind  that  why  so  many  young  men 
despise  and  even   deride  knowledge  is  be- 


The  Handling  of  Knowledge    73 

cause  knowledge  has  been  presented  to  them 
in  so  arid  a  form,  so  Httle  connected  with 
anything  that  concerns  them  in  the  remotest 
degree.  We  ought,  I  think,  to  wind  our 
way  slowly  back  into  the  past  from  the 
pjresent;  we  ought  to  start  with  modern 
problems  and  modern  ideas,  and  show  people 
how  they  came  into  being;  we  ought  to  learn 
about  the  world,  as  it  is,  first,  and  climb  the 
hill  slowly.  But  what  we  do  is  to  take  the 
history  of  the  past,  Athens  and  Rome  and 
Judcca,  three  glowing  and  shining  realms,  I 
readily  admit;  but  we  leave  the  gaps  all 
unbridged,  so  that  it  seems  remote,  abstruse, 
and  incomprehensible  that  men  should  ever 
have  lived  and  thought  so. 

Then  we  deluge  children  with  the  old 
languages,  not  teaching  them  to  read,  but  to 
construe,  and  cramming  the  little  memories 
with  hideous  grammatical  forms.  So  the 
whole  process  of  education  becomes  a  dreary 
wrestling  with  the  uninteresting  and  the 
unattainable;  and  when  we  have  broken  the 
neck   of   infantile   curiosity   with   these   un- 


74  Knowlcdi/e 


t.' 


couth  burdens,  we  wonder  that  life  becomes 
a  place  where  the  only  aini  is  to  get  a  good 
appointment,  and  play  as  many  games  as 
possible. 

Yet  learning  need  not  be  so  cumbrously 
carried  after  all !  I  was  reading  a  few  days 
ago  a  little  book  by  Profess6r  Ker,  on 
mediaeval  English,  and  reading  it  with  a 
species  of  rapture.  It  all  came  so  freshly 
and  pungently  out  of  a  full  mind,  penetrated 
with  zest  and  enjoyment.  One  followed  the 
little  rill  of  literary  craftsmanship  so  easily 
out  of  the  plain  to  its  high  source  among  the 
hills,  till  I  wondered  why  on  earth  I  had  not 
been  told  some  of  these  delightful  things 
long  ago,  that  I  might  have  seen  how  our 
great  literature  took  shape.  Such  scraps  of 
knowledge  as  I  possess  fell  into  shape,  and 
I  saw  the  whole  as  in  a  map  outspread. 

And  then  I  realised  that  knowledge,  if  it 
was  only  rightly  directed,  could  be  a  beautiful 
and  attractive  thing,  not  a  mere  fuss  about 
nothing,  dull  facts  reluctantly  acquired, 
readily  forgotten. 


Haiuiling  of  Knowledge        75 

All  children  begin  by  wanting  to  know, 
but  they  are  often  told  not  to  be  tiresome, 
which  generally  means  that  the  elder  person 
has  no  answer  to  give,  and  does  not  like  to 
appear  ignorant.  And  then  the  time  comes 
for  Latin  Grammar,  and  Cicero's  De  Se?iectute, 
and  Caesar's  Comvicntaries,  and  the  be- 
wildered stripling  privately  resolves  to  have 
no  more  than  he  can  help  to  do  with  these 
aptiquc  horrors.  The  marvellous  thing 
seems  to  him  to  be  that  men  of  flesh  and 
blood  could  have  found  it  worth  their  while 
to  compose  such  things. 

Erudition,  great  is  thy  sin!  It  is  not  that 
one  wants  to  deprive  the  savant  of  his  know- 
ledge; one  only  wants  a  little  common-sense 
and  imaginative  sympathy.  How  can  a 
little  boy  guess  that  some  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful stories  in  the  world  lie  hid  among  a  mass 
of  wriggling  consonants,  or  what  a  garden 
lurks  behind  the  iron  gate,  with  ^Xooauoa 
and  fioXovjuai  to  guard  the  threshold? 

I  am  not  going  to  discuss  here  the  old 
curriculum.     "Let    'em    'ave    it!"    as    the 


76  Knowledge 

parent  said  to  the  schoolmaster,  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  some  instrument  of 
flagellation — as  indeed  it  is.  I  look  round 
my  book-lined  shelves,  and  reflect  how  much 
of  interest  and  pleasure  those  parallel  rows 
have  meant  to  me,  and  how  I  struggled  into 
the  use  of  them  outside  of  and  not  because 
of  my  so-called  education;  and  how  much 
they  might  mean  to  others  if  they  had  not 
been  so  conscientiously  bumped  into  paths 
of  peace. 

"Nothing,"  said  Pater,  speaking  of  art  in 
one  of  his  finest  passages,  "nothing  which 
has  ever  engaged  the  great  and  eager  affec- 
tions of  men  and  women  can  ever  wholly  lose 
its  charm."  Not  to  the  initiated,  perhaps! 
But  I  sometimes  wonder  if  anything  which 
has  been  taught  with  dictionary  and  gram- 
mar, with  parsing  and  construing,  with 
detention  and  imposition,  can  ever  wholly 
regain  its  charm.  I  am  afraid  that  we  must 
make  a  clean  sweep  of  the  old  processes,  if 
we  have  any  intention  of  interesting  our 
youth  in  the  beauty  of  human  ideas  and 


The  Grammar-Grind  77 

their  expression.  But  while  we  do  not  care 
about  beauty  and  interest  in  life,  while  we 
conscientiously  believe,  in  spite  of  a  cataract 
of  helpless  facts,  in  the  virtues  of  the  old 
grammar-grind,  so  long  shall  we  remain  an 
uncivilised  nation.  Civilisation  does  not 
consist  in  commercial  prosperity,  or  even  in 
a  fine  service  of  express  trains.  It  resides 
in  quick  apprehension,  lively  interest,  eager 
sympathy   ...   at  least  I  suspect  so. 

"Like  a  crane  or  a  swallow,  so  did  I 
chatter!"  said  the  rueful  prophet.  I  do  not 
write  as  a  pessimist,  hardly  as  a  critic;  still 
less  as  a  censor;  to  waste  time  in  deriding 
others'  theories  of  life  is  a  very  poor  sub- 
stitute for  enjoying  it!  I  think  we  do  very 
fairly  well  as  we  are;  only  do  not  let  us  in- 
dulge in  the  cant  in  which  educators  so  freely 
indulge,  the  claim  that  we  are  interested  in 
ideas  intellectual  or  artistic,  and  that  we  are 
trying  to  educate  our  youth  in  these  things. 
We  do  produce  some  intellectual  athletes, 
and  we  knock  a  few  hardy  minds  more  or  less 
into  shape;   but  meanwhile  a  great  river  of 


78  Knowledge 

opportunities,  curiosity,  intelligence,  taste, 
interest,  pleasure,  goes  idly  weltering, 
through  mud-flats  and  lean  promontories 
and  bare  islands  to  the  sea.  It  is  the  loss, 
the  waste,  the  folly,  of  it  that  I  deplore. 


X 

GROWTH 

As  the  years  go  on,  what  one  begins  to  per- 
ceive about  so  many  people — though  one 
tries  hard  to  beHeve  it  is  not  so — is  that 
somehow  or  other  the  mind  does  not  grow, 
the  view  does  not  alter;  life  ceases  to  be  a 
pilgrimage,  and  becomes  a  journey,  such 
as  a  horse  takes  in  a  farm-cart.  He  is 
pulling  something,  he  has  got  to  pull  it,  he 
does  not  care  much  what  it  is — turnips,  hay, 
manure!  If  he  thinks  at  all,  he  thinks  of  the 
stable  and  the  manger.  The  middle-aged 
do  not  try  experiments,  they  lose  all  sense  of 
adventure.  They  make  the  usual  kind  of 
fortification  for  themselves,  pile  up  a  shelter 
out  ,of  prejudices  and  stony  opinions.  It 
is  out  of  the  wind  and  rain,  and  the  pro- 
spect   is  safely     excluded.      The    landscape 

79 


8o  Growth 

is  so  familiar  that  the  entrenched  spirit  does 
not  even  think  about  it,  or  care  what  lies 
behind  the  hill  or  across  the  river. 

Now  of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  people 
can  or  should  play  fast  and  loose  with  life, 
throw  up  a  task  or  a  position  the  moment 
they  are  bored  with  it,  be  at  the  mercy  of 
moods.  I  am  speaking  here  solely  of  the 
possible  adventures  of  mind  and  soul;  it  is 
good,  wholesome,  invigorating,  to  be  tied  to 
a  work  in  life,  to  have  to  discharge  it  whether 
one  likes  it  or  no,  through  indolence  and 
disinclination,  through  depression  and  rest- 
lessness. But  we  ought  not  to  be  immured 
among  conventions  and  received  opinions. 
We  ought  to  ask  ourselves  why  we  believe 
what  we  take  for  granted,  and  even  if  we 
do  really  believe  it  at  all.  We  ought  not 
to  condemn  people  who  do  not  move  along 
the  same  lines  of  thought;  we  ought  to 
change  our  minds  a  good  deal,  not  out  of 
mere  levity,  but  because  of  experience.  We 
ought  not  to  think  too  much  of  the  import- 
ance of  what  we  are  doing,  and  still  less  of 


Self-Applause  8i 

the  importance  of  what  we  have  done;  we 
ought  to  find  a  common  ground  on  which  to 
meet  distasteful  people;  we  ought  to  labour 
hard  against  self-pity  as  well  as  against 
self-applause;  we  ought  to  feel  that  if  we 
have  missed  chances,  it  is  out  of  our  own 
heedlessness  and  stupidity.  Self-applause 
is  a  more  subtle  thing  even  than  self-pity, 
because,  if  one  rejects  the  sense  of  credit, 
one  is  apt  to  congratulate  oneself  on  being 
the  kind  of  person  who  does  reject  it,  where- 
as we  ought  to  avoid  it  as  instinctively  as 
we  avoid  a  bad  smell.  Above  all,  we  ought 
to  believe  that  we  can  do  something  to 
change  ourselves,  if  we  only  try;  that  we 
can  anchor  our  conscience  to  a  responsibility 
or  a  personality,  can  perceive  that  the 
society  of  certain  people,  the  reading  of 
certain  books,  does  affect  us,  make  our 
mind  grow  and  germinate,  give  us  a  sense 
of  something  fine  and  significant  in  life. 
The  thing  is  to  say,  as  the  prim  governess 
says  in  Shirley,  "You  acknowledge  the  in- 
estimable worth  of  principle?" — it  is  possible 


82  Growth 

to  get  and  to  hold  a  clear  view,  as  opposed  to 
a  muddled  view,  of  life  and  its  issues;  and 
the  blessing  is  that  one  can  do  this  in  any 
circle,  under  any  circumstances,  in  the  midst 
of  any  kind  of  work.  That  is  the  wonderful 
thing  about  thought,  that  it  is  like  a  captive 
balloon  which  is  anchored  in  one's  garden. 
It  is  possible  to  climb  into  it  and  to  cast 
adrift;  but  so  many  people,  as  I  have  said, 
seem  to  end  by  pulling  the  balloon  in,  letting 
out  the  gas,  and  packing  the  whole  away  in  a 
shed.  Of  course  the  power  of  doing  all  this 
varies  very  much  in  different  temperaments; 
but  I  am  sure  that  there  are  many  people  who, 
looking  back  at  their  youth,  are  conscious 
that  they  had  something  stirring  and  throb- 
bing within  them  which  they  have  somehow 
lost;  some  vision,  some  hope,  some  faint 
and  radiant  ideal.  Why  do  they  lose  it,  why 
do  they  settle  down  on  the  lees  of  life,  why 
do  they  snuggle  down  among  comfortable 
opinions?  Mostly,  I  am  sure,  out  of  a  kind 
of  indolence.  There  are  a  good  many  people 
who   say   to   themselves,    "After   all,    what 


The  Design  83 

really  matters  is  a  solid  defined  position 
in  the  world;  I  must  make  that  for  myself, 
and  meanwhile  I  must  not  indulge  myself 
in  any  fancies;  it  will  be  time  to  do  that 
when  I  have  earned  my  pension  and  settled 
my  children  in  life."  And  then  when  the 
time  arrives,  the  frail  and  unsubstantial 
things  are  all  dead  and  cannot  be  recovered; 
for  happiness  cannot  be  achieved  along  these 
cautious  and  heavy  lines. 

And  so  I  say  that  wc  must  deliberately 
aim  at  something  different  from  the  first. 
We  must  not  block  up  the  further  views  and 
wider  prospects;  we  must  keep  the  horizon 
open.  What  I  here  suggest  has  nothing 
whatever  that  is  unpractical  about  it;  it  is 
only  a  deeper  foresight,  a  more  prudent 
wisdom.  We  must  say  to  ourselves  that 
whatever  happens,  the  soul  shall  not  be 
atrophied;  and  we  should  be  as  anxious 
about  it,  if  we  find  that  it  is  losing  its  zest 
and  freedom,  as  we  should  be  if  we  found 
that  the  body  were  losing  its  appetite! 

It  is  no  metaphor  then,  but  sober  earnest, 


84  Growth 

when  I  say  that  when  we  take  our  place  in 
the  working  world,  we  ought  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  that  other  larger  stronghold 
of  the  soul,  Joyous  Card.  All  that  matters 
is  that  we  should  choose  a  fair  site  for  it  in 
free  air  and  beside  still  waters;  and  that  we 
should  plan  it  for  ourselves,  set  out  gardens 
and  plantations,  with  as  large  a  scheme  as 
we  can  make  for  it,  expecting  thd  grace  and 
greenery  that  shall  be,  and  the  increase  which 
God  gives.  It  may  be  that  we  shall  have  to 
build  it  slowly,  and  we  may  have  to  change 
the  design  many  times;  but  it  will  be  all  built 
out  of  our  own  mind  and  hope,  as  the  nautilus 
evolves  its  shell. 

I  am  not  speaking  of  a  scheme  of  self- 
improvement,  of  culture  followed  that  it 
may  react  on  our  profession  or  bring  us  in 
touch  with  useful  people,  of  mental  dis- 
cipline, of  correct  information.  The  Card 
is  not  to  be  a  factory  or  an  hotel ;  it  must  be 
frankly  built/or  our  delight.  It  is  delight  that 
we  must  follow,  everything  that  brims  the 
channel  of  life,  stimulates,  freshens,  enlivens. 


Fulness  of  Life  85 

tantalises,  attracts.  It  must  at  all  costs  be 
beautiful.  It  must  embrace  that  part  of 
religion  that  glows  for  us,  the  thing  which 
we  find  beautiful  in  other  souls,  the  art,  the 
poetry,  the  tradition,  the  love  of  nature,  the 
craft,  the  interests  we  hanker  after.  It  need 
not  contain  all  these  things,  because  we  can 
often  do  better  by  checking  diffuseness,  and 
by  resolute  self-limitation.  It  is  not  by  be- 
lieving in  particular  books,  pictures,  tunes, 
tastes,  that  we  can  do  it.  That  ends  often 
a§  a  mere  prison  to  the  thought;  it  is  rather 
by  meeting  the  larger  spirit  that  lies  behind 
life,  recognising  the  impulse  which  meets 
us  in  a  thousand  forms,  which  forces  us  not 
to  be  content  with  narrow  and  petty  things, 
but  emerges  as  the  energy,  whatever  it  is, 
that  pushes  through  the  crust  of  life,  as 
the  flower  pushes  through  the  mould.  Our 
dulness,  our  acquiescence  in  monotonous 
ways,  arise  from  our  not  realising  how  in- 
finitely important  that  force  is,  how  much 
it  has  done  for  man,  how  barren  life  is  with- 
out it.     Here  in  England  many  of  us  have  a 


86  Growth 

dark  suspicion  of  all  that  is  joyful,  inherited 
perhaps  from  our  Puritan  ancestry,  a  fear  of 
yielding  ourselves  to  its  influence,  a  terror 
of  being  grimly  repaid  for  indulgence,  an  old 
superstitious  dread  of  somehow  incurring 
the  wrath  of  God,  if  we  aim  at  happiness 
at  all.  We  must  know,  many  of  us,  that 
strange  shadow  which  falls  upon  us  when  we 
say,  "I  feel  so  happy  to-day  that  some  evil 
must  be  going  to  befall  me!"  It  is  true 
that  afflictions  must  come,  but  they  are 
not  to  spoil  our  joy;  they  are  rather  to 
refine  it  and  strengthen  it.  And  those 
who  have  yielded  themselves  to  joy  are 
often  best  equipped  to  get  the  best  out  of 
sorrow. 

We  must  aim  then  at  fulness  of  life;  not 
at  husbanding  our  resources  with  meagre 
economy,  but  at  spending  generously  and 
fearlessly,  grasping  experience  firmly,  nur- 
turing zest  and  hope.  The  frame  of  mind 
we  must  beware  of,  which  is  but  a  stingy 
vanity,  is  that  which  makes  us  say,  "I  am 
sure  I  should  not  like  that  person,  that  book, 


Fulness  of  Life  87 

that  place!"  It  is  that  closing-in  of  our  own 
possibiHties  that  we  must  avoid. 

There  is  a  verse  in  the  Book  of  Proverbs 
that  often  comes  into  my  mind;  it  is  spoken 
of  a  reprobate,  whose  deHghts  indeed  are 
not  those  that  the  soul  should  pursue;  but 
the  temper  in  which  he  is  made  to  cling  to 
tl>e  pleasure  which  he  mistakes  for  joy, 
is  the  temper,  I  am  sure,  in  which  one  should 
approach  life.  He  cries,  "  They  liave  stricken 
me,  aiid  I  was  not  sick;  they  have  beaten  me, 
and  I  felt  it  not.  When  shall  I  awake  ?  I  will 
seek  it  yet  again.'" 


XI 

EMOTION 

We  are  a  curious  nation,  we  English !  Stend- 
hal says  that  our  two  most  patent  vices 
are  bashfulness  and  cant.  That  is  to  say, 
we  are  afraid  to  say  what  we  think,  and 
when  we  have  gained  the  courage  to  speak, 
we  say  more  than  we  think.  We  are  really 
an  emotional  nation  at  heart,  easily  moved 
and  liking  to  be  moved ;  we  are  largely  swayed 
by  feeling,  and  much  stirred  by  anything 
that  is  i)icturesque.  But  we  are  strangely 
ashamed  of  anything  that  seems  like  senti- 
ment; and  so  far  from  being  bluff  and 
unaffected  about  it,  we  are  full  of  the  affecta- 
tion, the  pretence  of  not  being  swayed  by  our 
emotions.  We  have  developed  a  curious 
idea  of  what  men  and  women  ought  to  be; 
and  one  of  our  pretences  is  that  men  should 

88 


Property  89 

affect  not  to  understand  sentiment,  and  to 
leave,  as  we  rudely  say,  "all  that  sort  of 
thing  to  the  women."  Yet  we  are  much  at 
the  mercy  of  claptrap  and  mawkish  phrases, 
and  we  like  rhetoric  partly  because  we  are 
too  shy  to  practise  it.  The  result  of  it  is 
that  we  believe  ourselves  to  be  a  frank,  out- 
spoken, good-natured  race;  but  we  produce 
an  unpleasant  effect  of  stiffness,  angularity, 
discourtesy,  and  self-centredness  upon  more 
genial  nations.  We  defend  our  bluffness  by 
believing  that  we  hold  emotion  to  be  too 
rare  and  sacred  a  quality  to  be  talked  about, 
though  I  always  have  a  suspicion  that  if  a 
man  says  that  a  subject  is  too  sacred  to  dis- 
cuss, he  probably  also  finds  it  too  sacred  to 
think  about  very  much  either;  yet  if  one  can 
get  a  sensible  Englishman  to  talk  frankly 
and  unaffectedly  about  his  feelings,  it  is 
often  surprising  to  find  how  delicate  they 
are. 

One  of  our  chief  faults  is  our  love  of  pro- 
perty, and  the  consequence  of  that  is  our 
admiration  for  what  we  call  "business-like" 


90  Emotion 

qualities.  It  is  really  from  the  struggle 
between  the  instinct  of  possession  and  the 
emotional  instinct  that  our  bashfulness  arises; 
we  are  afraid  of  giving  ourselves  away,  and 
of  being  taken  advantage  of;  we  value  posi- 
tion and  status  and  respectability  very 
high ;  we  like  to  know  who  a  man  is,  what  he 
stands  for,  what  his  influence  amounts  to, 
what  he  is  worth;  and  all  this  is  very  in- 
jurious to  our  simplicity,  because  we  esti- 
mate people  so  much  not  by  their  real  merits 
but  by  their  accumulated  influence.  I  do 
not  believe  that  we  shall  ever  rise  to  true 
greatness  as  a  nation  until  we  learn  not  to 
take  property  so  seriously.  It  is  true  that 
we  prosper  in  the  world  at  present,  we  keep 
order,  we  make  money,  we  spread  a  bour- 
geois sort  of  civilisation,  but  it  is  not  a  parti- 
cularly fine  or  fruitful  civilisation,  because 
it  deals  so  exclusively  with  material  things. 
I  do  not  wish  to  decry  the  race,  because  it 
has  force,  toughness,  and  fine  working 
qualities;  but  we  do  not  know  what  to  do 
with  our  prosperity  when  we  have  got  it;  we 


The  Illizabcthan  Era  91 

can  make  very  little  use  of  leisure;  and  our 
idea  of  success  is  to  have  a  well-appointed 
house,  expensive  amusements,  and  to  dis- 
tribute a  dull  and  costly  hospitality,  which 
ministers  more  to  our  own  satisfaction  than 
to  the  pleasure  of  the  recipients. 

There  really  can  be  few  countries  where 
men  are  so  contented  to  be  dull!  There  is 
little  speculation  or  animation  or  intelligence 
or  interest  among  us,  and  people  who  desire 
such  an  atmosphere  are  held  to  be  fanciful, 
eccentric,  and  artistic.  It  was  not  alwa^'s  so 
with  our  race.  In  Elizabethan  times  we  had 
all  the  inventiveness,  the  love  of  adventure, 
the  pride  of  dominance  that  we  have  now; 
but  there  was  then  a  great  interest  in  things 
of  the  mind  as  well,  a  lively  taste  for  ideas, 
a  love  of  beautiful  things  and  thoughts. 
The  Puritan  uprising  knocked  all  that  on 
the  head,  but  Puritanism  was  at  least  pre- 
occupied with  moral  ideas,  and  developed 
an  excitement  about  sin  which  was  at  all 
events  a  sign  of  intellectual  ferment.  And 
then  we  did  indeed  decline  into  a  comfort- 


92  Emotion 

able  sort  of  security,  into  a  stale  classical 
tradition,  with  pompous  and  sonorous  writ- 
ing on  the  one  hand,  and  with  neatness, 
literary  finish,  and  wit  rather  than  humour 
on  the  other.  That  was  a  dull,  stolid,  digni- 
fied time;  and  it  was  focussed  into  a  great 
figure  of  high  genius,  filled  with  the  com- 
bative common-sense  which  Englishmen 
admire,  the  figure  of  Dr.  Johnson.  His  in- 
fluence, his  temperament,  portrayed  in  his 
matchless  biography,  did  indeed  dominate 
literary  England  to  its  hurt;  because  the 
essence  of  Johnson  was  his  freshness,  and  in 
his  hands  the  great  rolling  Palladian  sen- 
tences contrived  to  bite  and  penetrate;  but 
his  imitators  did  not  see  that  freshness  was 
the  one  requisite ;  and  so  for  a  generation  the 
pompous  rotund  tradition  flooded  English 
prose;  but  for  all  that,  England  was  saved  in 
literature  from  mere  stateliness  by  the  sudden 
fierce  interest  in  life  and  its  problems  which 
burst  out  like  a  spring  in  eighteenth-century 
fiction;  and  so  we  come  to  the  Victorian 
era,  when  we  were  partially  submerged  by 


The  Victorian  Era  93 

prosperity,  scientific  invention,  commerce, 
colonisation.  But  the  great  figures  of  the 
century  arose  and  had  their  say — Carlyle, 
Tennyson,  Browning,  Ruskin,  WilHam 
Morris;  it  was  there  all  the  time,  that  spirit 
of  fierce  hope  and  discontent  and  emotion, 
that  deep  longing  to  penetrate  the  issues 
and  the  significance  of  life. 

It  may  be  that  the  immense  activity  of 
science  somewhat  damped  our  interest  in 
beauty;  but  that  is  probably  a  temporary 
thing.  The  influence  exerted  by  the  early 
scientists  was  in  the  direction  of  facile 
promises  to  solve  all  mysteries,  to  analyse 
everything  into  elements,  to  classify,  to 
track  out  natural  laws;  and  it  was  believed 
that  the  methods  and  processes  of  life  would 
be  divested  of  their  secrecy  and  their  irrespon- 
sibility; but  the  eff'ect  of  further  investi- 
gation is  to  reveal  that  life  is  infinitely  more 
complex  than  was  supposed,  and  that  the 
end  is  as  dim  as  ever;  though  science  did 
for  a  while  make  havoc  of  the  stereotyped 
imaginative  systems  of  faith  and  belief,  so 


94  Emotion 

thai  men  supposed  that  beauty  was  but 
an  accidental  emphasis  of  law,  and  that  the 
love  of  it  could  be  traced  to  very  material 
preferences. 

The  artist  was  for  a  time  dismayed,  at 
being  confronted  by  the  chemist  who  held 
that  he  had  explained  emotion  because  he 
had  analysed  the  substance  of  tears;  and 
for  a  time  the  scientific  spirit' drove  the 
spirit  of  art  into  cliques  and  coteries,  so 
that  artists  were  hidden,  like  the  Lord's 
prophets,  by  fifties  in  caves,  and  fed  upon 
bread  and  water. 

What  mostly  I  would  believe  now  injures 
and  overshadows  art,  is  that  artists  are 
affected  by  the  false  standard  of  prosperous 
life,  are  not  content  to  work  in  poverty  and 
simplicity,  but  are  anxious,  as  all  ambitious 
natures  who  love  applause  must  be,  to  share 
in  the  spoils  of  the  Philistines.  There  are, 
I  know,  craftsmen  who  care  nothing  at  all  for 
these  things,  but  work  in  silence  and  even  in 
obscurity  at  what  seems  to  them  engrossing 
and  beautiful;  but  they  are  rare;  and  when 


The  Greek  Spirit  95 

there  is  so  much  experience  and  pleasure  and 
comfort  abroad,  and  when  security  and 
deference  so  much  depend  upon  wealth,  the 
artist  desires  wealth,  more  for  the  sake  of 
experience  and  pleasure  than  for  the  sake 
of    accumulation. 

But  the  spirit  which  one  desires  to  see 
spring  up  is  the  Athenian  spirit,  which  finds 
its'  satisfaction  in  ideas  and  thoughts  and 
beautiful  emotions,  in  mental  exploration 
and  artistic  expression;  and  is  so  absorbed, 
so  .intent  upon  these  things  that  it  can  afford 
to  let  prosperity  flow  past  like  a  muddy 
stream.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  Eng- 
lish spirit  is  solitary  rather  than  social, 
and  the  artistic  spirit  is  jealous  rather  than 
inclusive;  and  so  it  comes  about  that  in- 
stead of  artists  and  men  of  ideas  consort- 
ing together  and  living  a  free  and  simple 
life,  they  tend  to  dwell  in  lonely  fortresses 
and  paradises,  costly  to  create,  costly  to 
maintain.  The  English  spirit  is  against 
communities.  If  it  were  not  so,  how  easy 
it  would  be  for  people  to  live  in  groups  and 


96  Emotion 

circles,  with  common  interests  and  tastes,  to 
encourage  each  other  to  believe  in  beautiful 
things,  and  to  practise  ardent  thoughts  and 
generous  dreams.  But  this  cannot  be  done 
artificially,  and  the  only  people  who  ever  try 
to  do  it  are  artists,  who  do  occasionally 
congregate  in  a  place,  and  make  no  secret  to 
each  other  of  what  they  are  pursuing.  I  have 
sometimes  touched  the  fringe  of  a  community 
like  that,  and  have  been  charmed  by  the 
sense  of  a  more  eager  happiness,  a  more  un- 
affected intercourse  of  spirits  than  I  have 
found  elsewhere.  But  the  world  intervenes! 
domestic  ties,  pecuniary  interests,  civic 
claims  disintegrate  the  group.  It  is  sad  to 
think  how  possible  such  intercourse  is  in 
youth,  and  in  youth  only,  as  one  sees  it  dis- 
played in  that  fine  and  moving  book  Trilby, 
which  does  contrive  to  reflect  the  joy  of 
the  buoyant  companionship  of  art.  But 
the  flush  dies  down,  the  insouciance  departs, 
and  with  it  the  ardent  generosity  of  life. 
Some  day  perhaps,  when  life  has  become 
simpler  and  wealth   more  equalised,   when 


The  Charm  of  Life  97 

work  is  more  distributed,  when  there  is  less 
production  of  unnecessary  things,  these 
groups  will  form  themselves,  and  the  frank, 
eager,  vivid  spirit  of  youth  will  last  on  into 
middle-age,  and  even  into  age  itself.  I  do 
not  think  that  this  is  wholly  a  dream;  but 
we  must  first  get  rid  of  much  of  the  pompous 
nonsense  about  money  and  position,  which 
now  spoils  so  many  lives;  and  if  we  could  be 
more  genuinely  interested  in  the  beauty  and 
complex  charm  and  joy  of  life,  we  should 
•think  less  and  less  of  material  things,  be 
content  with  shelter,  warmth,  and  food,  and 
grudge  the  time  we  waste  in  providing  things 
for  which  we  have  no  real  use,  simply  in 
order  that,  like  the  rich  fool,  we  may  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  having  much  goods 
laid  up  for  many  years,  when  the  end  was 
hard  at  hand! 


XII 

MEMORY 

Memory  is  for  many  people  the  only  form  of 
poetry  which  they  indulge.  If  d  soul  turns 
to  the  future  for  consolation  in  a  sad  or 
wearied  or  disappointed  present,  it  is  in 
religion  that  hope  and  strength  are  some- 
times found;  but  if  it  is  a  retrospective 
nature — and  the  poetical  nature  is  generally 
retrospective,  because  poetry  is  concerned 
with  the  beauty  of  actual  experience  and 
actual  things,  rather  than  with  the  possible 
and  the  unknown — then  it  finds  its  medicine 
for  the  dreariness  of  life  in  memory.  Of 
course  there  are  many  simple  and  healthy 
natures  which  do  not  concern  themselves 
with  visions  at  all — the  little  businesses,  the 
daily  pleasures,  are  quietly  and  even  eagerly 
enjoyed.     But    the    poetical    nature    is    the 

98 


Experience  99 

nature  that  is  not  easily  contented,  because 
it  tends  to  idealisation,  to  the  thought  that 
the  present  might  easily  be  so  much  happier, 
brighter,  more  beautiful,  than  it  is. 

An  eager  soul  that  looks  beyond 
And  shivers  in  the  midst  of  bliss, 
That  cries,  "I  should  not  need  despond. 
If  this  were  otherwise,  and  this!" 

And  so  the  soul  that  has  seen  much  and 
enjoyed  much  and  endured  much,  and  whose 
whole  life  has  been  not  spoiled,  of  course, 
but  a  little  shadowed  by  the  thought  that 
the  elements  of  happiness  have  never  been 
quite  as  pure  as  it  would  have  wished,  turns 
back  in  thought  to  the  old  scenes  of  love 
and  companionship,  and  evokes  from  the 
dark,  as  from  the  pages  of  some  volume  of 
photographs  and  records,  the  pictures  of  the 
past,  retouching  them,  it  is  true,  and  adapt- 
ing them,  by  deftly  removing  all  the  broken 
lights  and  intrusive  anxieties,  not  into  what 
they  actually  were,  but  into  what  they 
might   have   been.     Carlyle   laid   his   finger 


100  Memory 

upon  the  truth  of  this  power,  when  he  said 
that  the  reason  why  the  pictures  of  the  past 
were  always  so  golden  in  tone,  so  delicate 
in  outline,  was  because  the  quality  of  fear 
was  taken  from  them.  It  is  the  fear  of  what 
may  be  and  what  must  be  that  overshadows 
{^resent  happiness;  and  if  fear  is  taken  from 
us  we  are  happy.  The  strange  thing  is  that 
we  cannot  learn  not  to  be  afraid,  even 
though  all  the  darkest  and  saddest  of  our 
experiences  have  left  us  unscathed;  and  if 
we  could  but  find  a  reason  for  the  mingling 
of  fear  with  our  lives,  we  should  have  gone 
far  towards  solving  the  riddle  of  the  world. 

This  indulgence  of  memory  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  weakening  or  an  enerv^ating  thing, 
so  long  as  it  does  not  come  to  us  too  early, 
or  disengage  us  from  needful  activities.  It 
is  often  not  accompanied  by  any  shadow  of 
loss  or  bitterness.  I  remember  once  sitting 
with  my  beloved  old  nurse,  when  she  was 
near  her  ninetieth  year,  in  her  little  room, 
in  which  was  gathered  much  of  the  old 
nurser}'    furniture,    the   tiny    chairs   of   the 


Old  Age  loi 

children,  the  store-cupboard  with  the  farm- 
yard pictures  on  the  panel,  the  stuffed  pet- 
birds — all  the  homely  wrack  of  life;  and  we 
had  been  recalling  many  of  the  old  childish 
incidents  with  laughter  and  smiles.  When 
I  rose  to  go,  she  sate  still  for  a  minute,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  quiet  tears,  "Ah,  those 
were  happy  days!"  she  said.  But  there  was 
no  repining  about  it,  no  sense  that  it  was 
better  to  forget  old  joys — rather  a  quiet 
pleasure  that  so  much  that  was  beautiful 
iind  tender  was  laid  away  in  memory,  and 
could  neither  be  altered  nor  taken  away. 
And  one  does  not  find  in  old  people,  whose 
memory  of  the  past  is  clear,  while  their 
recollection  of  the  present  grows  dim,  any 
sense  of  pathos,  but  rather  of  pride  and 
eagerness  about  recalling  the  minutest  de- 
tails of  the  vanished  days.  To  feel  the 
pathos  of  the  past,  as  Tennyson  expressed 
it  in  that  wonderful  and  moving  lyric, 
Tears,  idle  tears,  is  much  more  characteristic 
of  youth.  There  is  rather  in  serene  old  age 
a  sense  of  pleasant  triumph  at  having  safely 


102  Memory 

weathered  the  storms  of  fate,  and  left  the 
tragedies  of  Hfe  behind.  The  aged  would 
not  as  a  rule  live  life  over  igain,  if  they 
could.  They  are  not  disappointed  in  life. 
They  have  had,  on  the  whole,  what  they 
hoped  and  desired.  As  Goethe  said,  in  that 
deep  and  large  maxim,  "Of  that  which  a 
man  desires  in  his  youth,  he  shall  have 
enough  in  his  age."  That  is  one  of  the 
most  singular  things  in  life — at  least  this  is 
my  experience — how  the  things  which  one 
really  desired,  not  the  things  which  one 
ought  to  have  desired,  are  showered  upon 
one.  I  have  been  amazed  and  even  stupefied 
sometimes  to  consider  how  my  own  little 
petty,  foolish,  whimsical  desires  have  been 
faithfully  and  literally  granted  me.  We 
most  of  us  do  really  translate  into  fact  what 
we  desire,  and  as  a  rule  we  only  fail  to  get  the 
things  which  we  have  not  desired  enough. 
It  is  true  indeed  that  we  often  find  that 
what  we  desired  was  not  worth  getting; 
and  we  ought  to  be  more  afraid  of  our  desires, 
not  because  we  shall  not  get  them,  but  be- 


The  IiKlul<;cnt  Hand  103 


cause  we  shall  almost  certainly  have  them 
fulfilled.  For  myself  I  can  only  think  with 
shame  how  closely  my  present  conditions  do 
resemble  my  young  desires,  in  all  their  petty 
range,  their  trivial  particularity.  I  suppose  I 
have  unconsciously  pursued  them,  chosen 
them,  grasped  at  them;  and  the  shame  of  it  is 
that  if  I  had  desired  better  things,  I  should 
assuredly  have  been  given  them.  I  see,  or 
seem  to  see,  the  same  thing  in  the  lives  of 
many  that  I  know.  What  a  man  sows  he 
.shall  reap!  That  is  taken  generally  to  mean 
that  if  he  sows  pleasure,  he  shall  reap  dis- 
aster; but  it  has  a  much  truer  and  more 
terrible  meaning  than  that — namely,  that  if 
a  man  sows  the  seed  of  small,  trivial,  foolish 
joys,  the  grain  that  he  reaps  is  small,  trivial, 
and  foolish  too.  God  is  indeed  in  many  ways 
an  indulgent  Father,  like  the  Father  in  the 
parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son;  and  the  best 
rebuke  that  He  gives,  if  we  have  the  wisdom 
to  see  it,  is  that  He  so  often  does  hand  us, 
w4th  a  smile,  the  very  thing  we  have  desired. 
And  thus  it  is  well  to  pray  that  He  should 


104  Memory 

put  into  our  minds  good  desires,  and  that  we 
should  use  our  wills  to  keep  ourselves  from 
dwelling  too  much  upon  small  and  pitiful 
desires,  for  the  fear  is  that  they  will  be 
abundantly  gratified. 

And  thus  when  the  time  comes  for  recol- 
lection, it  is  a  very  wonderful  thing  to  look 
back  over  life,  and  see  how  eagerly  gracious 
God  has  been  to  us.  He  knows*  very  well 
that  we  cannot  learn  the  paltry-  value  of  the 
things  we  desire,  if  they  are  withheld  from 
us,  but  only  if  they  are  granted  to  us;  and 
thus  we  have  no  reason  to  doubt  His  fatherly 
intention,  because  He  does  so  much  dispose 
life  to  please  us.  And  we  need  not  take  it 
for  granted  that  He  will  lead  us  by  harsh 
and  provocative  discipline,  though,  when  He 
grants  our  desire,  He  sometimes  sends  lean- 
ness withal  into  our  soul.  Yet  one  of  the 
things  that  strikes  one  most  forcibly,  as  one 
grows  older  and  learns  something  of  the 
secrets  of  other  lives,  is  how  lightly  and 
serenely  men  and  women  do  often  bear  what 
might    seem    to    be    intolerable    calamities. 


The  Game  of  Life  105 

How  universal  an  experience  it  is  to  find 
that  when  the  expected  calamity  does  come, 
it  is  an  easier  affair  than  we  thought  it,  so 
that  we  say  under  the  blow,  "Is  that  really 
all?"  In  that  wonderful  book,  the  Diary  oj 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  his  bankruptcy  fell 
upon  him,  and  all  the  schemes  and  designs 
that  he  had  been  carrying  out,  with  the 
joyful  zest  of  a  child — his  toy-castle,  his 
feudal  circle,  his  wide  estate — were  suddenly 
suspended,  he  wrote  with  an  almost  amused 
.surprise  that  he  found  how  little  he  really 
cared,  and  that  the  people  who  spoke  tenderly 
and  sympathetically  to  him,  as  though  he 
must  be  reeling  under  the  catastrophe, 
would  themselves  be  amazed  to  find  that 
he  found  himself  as  cheerful  and  undaunted 
as  ever.  Life  is  apt,  for  all  vivid  people, 
to  be  a  species  of  high-hearted  game:  it  is 
such  fun  to  play  it  as  eagerly  as  one  can,  and 
to  persuade  oneself  that  one  really  cares 
about  the  applause,  the  money,  the  fine 
house,  the  comforts,  the  deference,  the  con- 
venience of  it  all.     And  yet,  if  there  is  any- 


io6  Memory 

thing  noble  in  a  man  or  woman,  when  the 
game  is  suddenly  interrupted  and  the  toys 
swept  aside,  they  find  that  there  is  some- 
thing exciting  and  stimulating  in  having  to 
do  without,  in  adapting  themselves  with 
^est  to  the  new  conditions.  It  was  a  good 
game  enough,  but  the  new  game  is  better! 
The  failure  is  to  take  it  all  heavily  and 
seriously,  to  be  solemn  about  it;  for  then 
failure  is  disconcerting  indeed.  But  if  one 
is  interested  in  experience,  but  yet  has  the 
vitality  to  see  how  detached  one  really  is 
from  material  things,  how  little  they  really 
afifect  us,  then  the  change  is  almost  grateful. 
It  is  the  spirit  of  the  game,  the  activity,  the 
energy,  that  delights  us,  not  the  particular 
toy.  And  so  the  looking  back  on  life  ought 
never  to  be  a  mournful  thing;  it  ought  to  be 
light-hearted,  high-spirited,  amusing.  The 
spirit  survives,  and  there  is  yet  much  experi- 
ence ahead  of  us.  We  waste  our  sense  of 
pathos  very  strangely  over  inanimate  things. 
We  get  to  feel  about  the  things  that  surround 
us,  our  houses,  our  ver>^  chairs  and  tables. 


False  Pathos  107 

as  if  they  were  somehow  things  that  were 
actually  attached  to  us.  We  feel,  when  the 
old  house  that  has  belonged  to  our  family 
passes  into  other  hands,  as  though  the  rooms 
resented  the  intruders;  as  though  our  sofas 
and  cabinets  could  not  be  at  ease  in  other 
hands,  as  if  they  would  almost  prefer  shabby 
and  dusty  inaction  in  our  own  lumber-room, 
to  cheerful  use  in  some  other  circle.  This 
is  a  delusion  of  which  we  must  make  haste 
to  get  rid.  It  is  the  weakest  sort  of  senti- 
ment, and  yet  it  is  treasured  by  many 
natures  as  if  it  were  something  refined  and 
noble.  To  yield  to  it,  is  to  fetter  our 
life  with  self-imposed  and  fantastic  chains. 
There  is  no  sort  of  reason  why  we  should 
not  love  to  live  among  familiar  things;  but 
to  break  our  hearts  over  the  loss  of  them  is 
a  real  debasing  of  ourselves.  We  must  learn 
to  use  the  things  of  life  very  lightly  and  de- 
tachedly ;  and  to  entrench  ourselves  in  trivial 
associations  is  simply  to  court  dreariness  and 
to  fall  into  a  stupor  of  the  spirit. 

And  thus  even  our  old  memories  must  be 


io8  Memory 

treated  with  the  same  lightness  and  un- 
affectedness.  We  must  do  all  we  can  to 
forget  grief  and  disaster.  We  must  not 
consecrate  a  shrine  to  sorrow  and  make  the 
votive  altar,  as  Dido  did,  into  a  causa  doloris, 
an  excuse  for  lamentation.  We  must  not 
think  it  an  honourable  and  chivalrous  and 
noble  thing  to  spend  our  time  in  broken- 
hearted solemnity  in  the  vaults  of  perished 
joys.  Or  if  we  do  it,  we  must  frankly  con- 
fess it  to  be  a  weakness  and  a  languor  of 
spirit,  not  believe  it  to  be  a  thing  which 
others  ought  to  admire  and  respect.  It  was 
one  of  the  base  sentimentalities  of  the  last 
century,  a  real  sign  of  the  decadence  of  life, 
that  people  felt  it  to  be  a  fine  thing  to 
cherish  grief,  and  to  live  resolutely  with 
sighs  and  tears.  The  helpless  widow  of 
nineteenth-century  fiction,  shrouded  in  crape, 
and  bursting  into  tears  at  the  smallest  sign 
of  gaiety,  was  a  wholly  unlovely,  affected, 
dramatic  affair.  And  one  of  the  surest  signs 
of  our  present  vitality  is  that  this  attitude 
has  become  not   only  unusual,  but  frankly 


Indulgence  of  Grief  109 

absurd  and  unfashionable.  There  is  an 
intense  and  gallant  pathos  about  a  nature 
broken  by  sorrow,  making  desperate  attempts 
to  be  cheerful  and  active,  and  not  to  cast  a 
shadow  of  grief  upon  others.  There  is  no 
pathos  at  all  in  the  sight  of  a  person  bent 
on  emphasising  his  or  her  grief,  on  using  it 
to  make  others  uncomfortable,  on  extracting 
a  recognition  of  its  loyalty  and  fidelity  and 
emotional  fervour. 

Of  course  there  are  some  memories  and 
experiences  that  must  grave  a  deep  and 
terrible  mark  upon  the  heart,  the  shock  of 
which  has  been  so  severe,  that  the  current 
of  life  must  necessarily  be  altered  by  them. 
But  even  then  it  is  better  as  far  as  possible 
to  forget  them  and  to  put  them  away  from 
us — at  all  events,  not  to  indulge  them  or 
dwell  in  them.  To  yield  is  simply  to  delay 
the  pilgrimage,  to  fall  exhausted  in  some 
unhappy  arbour  by  the  road.  The  road  has 
to  be  travelled,  every  inch  of  it,  and  it  is 
better  to  struggle  on  in  feebleness  than  to 
collapse  in  despair. 


no  Memory 

Mrs.  Charles  Kingsley,  in  her  widowhood, 
once  said  to  a  friend,  "Whenever  I  find 
myself  thinking  too  much  about  Charles,  I 
simply  force  myself  to  read  the  most  ex- 
citing novel  I  can.  He  is  there,  he  is  waiting 
for  me;  and  hearts  were  made  to  love  with, 
not  to  break." 

And  as  the  years  go  on,  even  the  most 
terrible  memories  grow  to  have"  the  grace 
and  beauty  which  nature  lavishes  on  all  the 
relics  of  extinct  forces  and  spent  agonies. 
They  become  like  the  old  grey  broken  castle, 
with  the  grasses  on  its  ledges,  and  the  crows 
nesting  in  its  parapets,  rising  blind  and 
dumb  on  its  green  mound,  with  the  hamlet 
at  its  feet;  or  like  the  craggy  islet,  severed 
by  the  raging  sea  from  the  towering  head- 
land, where  the  samphire  sprouts  in  the  rift 
and  the  sea-birds  roost,  at  whose  foot  the 
surges  lap,  and  over  whose  head  the  land- 
ward wind  blows  swiftly  all  the  day. 


XIII 

RETROSPECT 

But  one  must  not  forget  that  after  all 
memory  has  another  side,  too  often  a  rueful 
side,  and  that  it  often  seems  to  turn  sour 
and  poisonous  in  the  sharp  decline  of  fading 
life;  and  this  ought  not  to  be.  I  would 
like  to  describe  a  little  experience  of  my  own 
which  came  to  me  as  a  surprise,  but  showed 
me  clearly  enough  what  memory  can  be  and 
what  it  rightly  is,  if  it  is  to  feed  the  spirit 
at  all. 

Not  very  long  ago  I  visited  Lincoln, 
where  my  father  was  Canon  and  Chancellor 
from  1872  to  1877.  I  had  been  there  only 
once  since  then,  and  that  was  twenty-four 
years  ago.  When  we  lived  there  I  was  a 
small  Eton  boy,  so  that  it  was  always  holiday 
time  there,  and  a  place  which  recalls  nothing 

III 


112  Retrospect 

but  school  holidays  has  perhaps  an  unfair 
advantage.  Moreover,  it  was  a  period  quite 
unaccompanied,  in  our  family  life,  by  any 
sort  of  trouble,  illness,  or  calamity.  The 
Chancery  of  Lincoln  is  connected  in  my 
mind  with  no  tragic  or  even  sorrowful  event 
whatever,  and  suggests  no  painful  reminis- 
cence. How  many  people,  I  wonder,  can 
say  that  of  any  home  that  has  sheltered 
them  for  so  long? 

Of  course  Lincoln  itself,  quite  apart  from 
any  memories  or  associations,  is  a  place  to 
kindle  much  emotion.  It  was  a  fine  sunny 
day  there,  and  the  colour  of  the  whole  place 
was  amazing — the  rich  warm  hue  of  the 
stone  of  which  the  Minster  is  built,  which 
takes  on  a  fine  ochre-brown  tinge  where  it  is 
weathered,  gives  it  a  look  of  homely  comfort, 
apart  from  the  matchless  dignity  of  clustered 
transept  and  soaring  towers.  Then  the 
glowing  and  mellow  brick  of  Lincoln,  its 
scarlet  roof  tiles — what  could  be  more  satis- 
fying for  instance  than  the  dash  of  vivid  red 
in  the  tiling  of  the  old  Palace  as  you  see  it 


Lincoln  113 

on  the  slope  among  its  gardens  from  the  op- 
posite upland? — its  smoke-blackened  fagades, 
the  abundance,  all  over  the  hill,  of  old 
embowered  gardens,  full  of  trees  and  thickets 
and  greenery,  its  grassy  spaces,  its  creeper- 
clad  houses ;  the  whole  effect  is  one  of  extra- 
ordinary richness  of  hue,  of  age  vividly 
exuberant,  splendidly  adorned, 

I  wandered  transported  about  Cathedral 
and  close,  and  became  aware  then  of  how 
strangely  unadventurous  in  the  matter  of 
exploration  one  had  always  been  as  a  boy. 
It  was  true  that  we  children  had  scampered 
with  my  father's  master-key  from  end  to 
end  of  the  Cathedral — wet  mornings  used 
constantly  to  be  spent  there — so  that  I  know 
every  staircase,  gallery,  clerestory,  parapet, 
triforium,  and  roof-vault  of  the  building — 
but  I  found  in  the  close  itself  many  houses, 
alleys,  little  streets,  which  I  had  actually 
never  seen,  or  even  suspected  their  existence. 

It  was  all  full  of  little  ghosts,  and  a  tiny 
vignette  shaped  itself  in  memory  at  every 
corner,    of    some    passing    figure — a    good- 

8 


114  Retrospect 

natured  Canon,  a  youthful  friend,  Levite  or 
Nethinim,  or  some  deadly  enemy,  the  son 
perhaps  of  some  old-established  denizen  of 
the  close,  with  whom  for  some  unknown 
reason  the  Chancery  schoolroom  proclaimed 
an  inflexible  feud. 

But  when  I  came  to  see  the  old  house 
itself — so  little  changed,  so  distinctly  recol- 
lected— then  I  was  indeed  an■^^zed  at  the 
torrent  of  little  happy  fragrant  memories 
which  seemed  to  pour  from  every  doorway 
and  window — the  games,  the  meals,  the 
plays,  the  literary  projects,  the  readings,  the 
telling  of  stories,  the  endless,  pointless, 
enchanting  wanderings  with  some  breathless 
object  in  view,  forgotten  or  transformed 
before  it  was  ever  attained  or  executed,  of 
which  children  alone  hold  the  secret. 

Best  of  all  do  I  recollect  long  summer 
afternoons  spent  in  the  great  secluded  high- 
walled  garden  at  the  back,  with  its  orchard, 
its  mound  covered  with  thickets,  and  the 
old  tower  of  the  city  wall,  which  made  a 
noble  fortress  in  games  of  prowess  or  ad- 


Childhood  115 

venture.  I  can  see  the  figure  of  my  father 
in  his  cassock,  holding  a  Httle  book,  walking 
up  and  down  among  the  gooseberry-beds 
half  the  morning,  as  he  developed  one  of  his 
unwritten  sermons  for  the  Minster  on  the 
following  day. 

I  do  not  remember  that  very  affectionate 
relations  existed  between  us  children;  it  was 
a  society,  based  on  good-humoured  tolerance 
and  a  certain  democratic  respect  for  liberty, 
that  nursery  group;  it  had  its  cliques,  its 
Sections,  its  political  emphasis,  its  diploma- 
cies ;  but  it  was  cordial  rather  than  emotional, 
and  bound  together  by  common  interests 
rather  than  by  mutual  devotion. 

This,  for  instance,  was  one  of  the  ludicrous 
incidents  which  came  back  to  me.  There 
was  an  odd  little  mediaeval  room  on  the 
ground-floor,  given  up  as  a  sort  of  study,  in 
the  school  sense,  to  my  elder  brother  and 
myself.  My  younger  brother,  aged  almost 
eight,  to  show  his  power,  I  suppose,  or  to 
protest  against  some  probably  quite  real 
grievance  or  tangible  indignity,  came  there 


ii6  Retrospect 

secretly  one  morning  in  our  absence,  took  a 
shovelful  of  red-hot  coals  from  the  fire,  laid 
them  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  departed.  The 
conflagration  was  discovered  in  time,  the 
author  of  the  crime  detected,  and  even 
the  most  tolerant  of  supporters  of  nursery 
anarchy  could  find  nothing  to  criticise  or 
condemn  in  the  punishment  justly  meted  out 
to  the  offender.  * 

But  here  was  the  extraordinary  part  of 
it  all.  I  am  myself  somewhat  afraid  of 
emotional  retrospect,  which  seems  to  me  as 
a  rule  to  have  a  peculiarly  pungent  and 
unbearable  smart  about  it.  I  do  not  as  a 
rule  like  revisiting  places  which  I  have  loved 
and  where  I  have  been  happy;  it  is  simply 
incurring  quite  unnecessary  pain,  and  quite 
fruitless  pain,  deliberately  to  unearth  buried 
memories  of  happiness. 

Now  at  Lincoln  the  other  day  I  found,  to 
my  wonder  and  relief,  that  there  was  not 
the  least  touch  of  regret,  no  sense  of  sorrow 
or  loss  in  the  air.  I  did  not  want  it  all  back 
again,   nor  would   I   have  lived   through   it 


Old  Days  117 

again,  even  if  I  could  have  done  so.  The 
thought  of  returning  to  it  seemed  puerile; 
it  was  charming,  delightful,  all  full  of  golden 
prospects  and  sunny  mornings,  but  an  ex- 
perience which  had  yielded  up  its  sweetness 
as  a  summer  cloud  yields  its  cooling  rain, 
and  passes  over.  Yet  it  was  all  a  perfectly 
true,  real,  and  actual  part  of  my  life,  some- 
thing of  which  I  could  never  lose  hold  and 
for  which  I  could  always  be  frankly  grate- 
ful. Life  has  been  by  no  means  a  scene  of 
untroubled  happiness  since  then;  but  there 
came  to  me  that  day,  walking  along  the 
fragrant  garden-paths,  very  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly, the  knowledge  that  one  would  not 
wish  one's  life  to  have  been  untroubled! 
Halcyon  calm,  heedless  innocence,  childish 
joy,  was  not  after  all  the  point — pretty  things 
enough,  but  onl}^  as  a  change  and  a  relief,  or 
perhaps  rather  as  a  prelude  to  more  serious 
business!  I  was,  as  a  boy,  afraid  of  life, 
hated  its  noise  and  scent,  suspected  it  of 
cruelty  and  coarseness,  wanted  to  keep  it  at 
arm's  length.     I  feel  very  differently  about 


ii8  Retrospect 

life  now;  it's  a  boisterous  business  enough, 
but  does  not  molest  one  unduly;  and  a  very 
little  courage  goes  a  long  way  in  dealing 
with  it ! 

True,  on  looking  back,  the  evolution  was 
dim  and  obscure;  there  seemed  many  blind 
alleys  and  passages,  many  unnecessary  winds 
and  turns  in  the  road;  but  for  all  that  the 
trend  was  clear  enough,  at  alF  events,  to 
show  that  there  was  some  great  and  not 
unkindly  conspiracy  about  me  and  my  con- 
cerns, involving  everyone  else's  concerns  as 
well,  some  good-humoured  mystery,  with  a 
dash  of  shadow  and  sorrow  across  it  perhaps, 
which  would  be  soon  cleared  up;  some  secret 
withheld  as  from  a  child,  the  very  withholder 
of  which  seems  to  struggle  with  good-tem- 
pered laughter,  partly  at  one's  dulness  in 
not  being  able  to  guess,  partly  at  the  pleasure 
in  store. 

I  think  it  is  our  impatience,  our  claim  to 
have  everything  questionable  made  instantly 
and  perfectly  plain  to  us,  which  does  the 
mischief — that,  and  the  imagination  which 


Past  and  1  ^resent  119 

never  can  forecast  any  relief  or  surcease  of 
pain,  and  pays  no  heed  whatever  to  the 
astounding  brevity,  the  unutterable  rapidity 
of  human  life. 

So,  as  I  walked  in  the  old  garden,  I  simply 
rejoiced  that  I  had  a  share  in  the  place  which 
could  not  be  gainsaid;  and  that,  even  if  the 
high  towers  themselves,  with  their  melo- 
dious bells,  should  crumble  into  dust,  I  still 
had  my  dear  memory  of  it  all :  the  old  life, 
the  old  voices,  looks,  embraces,  came  back 
in  little  glimpses;  yet  it  was  far  away,  long 
past,  and  I  did  not  wish  it  back;  the  present 
seemed  a  perfectly  natural  and  beautiful 
sequence,  and  that  past  life  an  old  sweet 
chapter  of  some  happy  book,  which  needs 
no  rewriting. 

So  I  looked  back  in  joy  and  tenderness — 
and  even  with  a  sort  of  compassion;  the 
child  whom  I  saw  sauntering  along  the  grass 
paths  of  the  garden,  shaking  the  globed  rain 
out  of  the  poppy's  head,  gathering  the  waxen 
apples  from  the  orchard  grass,  he  was  myself 
in  very  truth — there  was  no  doubting  that; 


120  Retrospect 

I  hardly  felt  different.  But  I  had  gained 
something  which  he  had  not  got,  some  open- 
ing of  eye  and  heart;  and  he  had  yet  to  bear, 
to  experience,  to  pass  through,  the  days 
which  I  had  done  with,  and  which,  in  spite 
of  their  much  sweetness,  had  yet  a  bitterness, 
as  of  a  heaHng  drug,  underneath  them,  and 
which  I  did  not  wish  to  taste  again.  No,  I 
desired  no  renewal  of  old  things,  only  the 
power  of  interpreting  the  things  that  were 
new,  and  through  which  even  now  one  was 
passing  swiftly  and  carelessly,  as  the  boy 
ran  among  the  fruit-trees  of  the  garden;  but 
it  was  not  the  golden  fragrant  husk  of  hap- 
piness that  one  wanted,  but  the  seed  hidden 
within  it — experience  was  made  sweet  just 
that  one  might  be  tempted  to  live!  Yet  the 
end  of  it  all  was  not  the  pleasure  or  the  joy 
that  came  and  passed,  the  gaiety,  even  the 
innocence  of  childhood,  but  something  stem 
and  strong,  which  hardly  showed  at  all  at 
first,  but  at  last  seemed  like  the  slow  work 
of  the  graver  of  gems  brushing  away  the 
glittering  crystalline  dust  from  the  intaglio. 


XIV 

HUMOUR 

The  Castle  of  Joyous  Card  was  always  full 
of  laughter;  not  the  wild  giggling,  I  think, 
of  reckless  people,  which  the  writer  of  Pro- 
verbs said  was  like  the  crackling  of  thorns 
•under  a  pot;  that  is  a  wearisome  and  even 
an  ugly  thing,  because  it  does  not  mean 
that  people  are  honestly  amused,  but  have 
some  basely  exciting  thing  in  their  minds. 
Laughter  must  be  light-hearted,  not  light- 
minded.  Still  less  was  it  the  dismal  tittering 
of  ill-natured  people  over  mean  gossip, 
which  is  another  of  the  ugly  sounds  of 
life.  No,  I  think  it  was  rather  the  laughter 
of  cheerful  people,  glad  to  be  amused,  who 
hardly  knew  that  they  were  laughing;  that 
is  a  wholesome  exercise  enough.  It  was  the 
laughter   of  men  and   women,   with   heavy 

121 


122  Humour 

enough  business  behind  them  and  before 
them,  but  yet  able  in  leisurely  hours  to  find 
life  full  of  merriment — the  voice  of  joy  and 
health!  And  I  am  sure  too  that  it  was  not 
the  guarded  condescending  laughter  of  saints 
who  do  not  want  to  be  out  of  sympathy 
with  their  neighbours,  and  laugh  as  pre- 
cisely and  punctually  as  they  might  respond 
to  a  liturgy,  if  they  discover  that  they  are 
meant  to  be  amused! 

Humour  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
Joyous  Card,  not  humour  resolutely  culti- 
vated, but  the  humour  which  comes  from 
a  sane  and  healthy  sense  of  proportion;  and 
is  a  sign  of  light-heartedness  rather  than  a 
thing  aimed  at;  a  thing  which  flows  naturally 
into  the  easy  spaces  of  life,  because  it  finds 
the  oddities  of  life,  the  peculiarities  of  people, 
the  incongruities  of  thought  and  speech, 
both  charming  and  delightful. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  so  many 
people  think  it  a  mark  of  saintliness  to  be 
easily  shocked,  whereas  the  greatest  saints 
of  all  are  the  people  who  are  never  shocked; 


The  Tramps  123 

they  may  be  distressed,  they  may  wish 
things  different;  but  to  be  shocked  is  often 
nothing  but  a  mark  of  vanity,  a  self-conscious 
desire  that  others  should  know  how  high 
one's  standard,  how  sensitive  one's  conscience 
is.  I  do  not  of  course  meai:i  that  one  is 
bound  to  join  in  laughter,  however  coarse 
a  jest  may  be;  but  the  best-bred  and  finest- 
{empered  people  steer  past  such  moments 
with  a  delicate  tact;  contrive  to  show  that 
an  ugly  jest  is  not  so  much  a  thing  to  be 
.disapproved  of  and  rebuked,  as  a  sign  that 
the  jester  is  not  recognising  the  rights  of  his 
company,  and  is  outstepping  the  laws  of 
civility  and  decency. 

It  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  say  what 
humour  is,  and  probably  it  is  a  thing  that  is 
not  worth  trying  to  define.  It  resides  in  the 
incongruity  of  speech  and  behaviour  with 
the  surrounding  circumstances. 

I  remember  once  seeing  two  tramps  dis- 
puting by  the  roadside,  with  the  gravity 
which  is  given  to  human  beings  by  being 
slightly    overcome    with    drink.     I    suppose 


124  Humour 

that  one  ought  not  to  be  amused  by  the 
effects  of  drunkenness,  but  after  all  one  does 
not  wish  people  to  be  drunk  that  one  may  be 
amused.  The  two  tramps  in  question  were 
ragged  and  infinitely  disreputable.  Just  as 
I  came  up,  the  more  tattered  of  the  two 
flung  his  hat  on  the  ground,  with  a  lofty 
gesture  like  that  of  a  king  abdicating,  and 
said,  "I  '11  go  no  further  with  ydu!"  The 
other  said,  "Why  do  you  say  that?  Why 
will  you  go  no  further  with  me?"  The  first 
replied,  "No,  I  '11  go  no  further  with  you!" 
The  other  said,  "I  must  know  why  you 
will  go  no  further  with  me — you  must  tell 
me  that!"  The  first  replied,  with  great 
dignity,  "Well,  I  will  tell  you  that!  It 
lowers  my  self-respect  to  be  seen  with  a 
man  like  you!" 

That  is  the  sort  of  incongruity  I  mean. 
The  tragic  solemnity  of  a  man  who  might 
have  changed  clothes  with  the  nearest 
scarecrow  without  a  perceptible  difference, 
and  whose  life  was  evidently  not  ordered  by 
any   excessive   self-respect,   falling  back  on 


Three  Views  125 

the  dignity  of  human  nature  in  order  to  be 
rid  of  a  companion  as  disreputable  as  him- 
self, is  what  makes  the  scene  so  grotesque, 
and  yet  in  a  sense  so  impressive,  because  it 
shows  a  lurking  standard  of  conduct  which 
no  pitiableness  of  degradation  could  oblit- 
erate. I  think  that  is  a  good  illustration  of 
what  I  mean  by  humour,  because  in  the 
presence  of  such  a  scene  it  is  possible  to 
have  three  perfectly  distinct  emotions.  One 
may  be  sorry  with  all  one's  heart  that  men 
should  fall  to  such  conditions,  and  feel  that 
it  is  a  stigma  on  our  social  machinery  that  it 
should  be  so.  Those  two  melancholy  figures 
were  a  sad  blot  upon  the  wholesome  country- 
side !  Yet  one  may  also  discern  a  hope  in  the 
mere  possibility  of  framing  an  ideal  under 
such  discouraging  circumstances,  which  will 
be,  I  have  no  sort  of  doubt,  a  seed  of  good  in 
the  upward  progress  of  the  poor  soul  which 
grasped  it;  because  indeed  I  have  no  doubt 
that  the  miserable  creature  is  on  an  upward 
path,  and  that  even  if  there  is  no  prospect  for 
him  in  this  life  of  anything  but  a  dismal  stum- 


126  Humour 

bling  down  into  disease  and  want,  yet  I  do 
not  in  the  least  believe  that  that  is  the  end  of 
his  horizon  or  his  pilgrimage;  and  thirdly, 
one  may  be  genuinely  and  not  in  the  least 
evilly  amused  at  the  contrast  between  the 
disreputable  squalor  of  the  scene  and  the 
lofty  claim  advanced.  The  three  emotions 
are  not  at  all  inconsistent.  The  pessi- 
mistic moralist  might  say  that  it  was  all 
very  shocking,  the  optimistic  moralist  might 
say  that  it  was  hopeful,  the  unreflcctive 
humourist  might  simply  be  transjjorted 
by  the  absurdity;  yet  not  to  be  amused  at 
such  a  scene  would  appear  to  me  to  be 
both  dull  and  priggish.  It  seems  to  me  to 
be  a  false  solemnity  to  be  shocked  at  any 
lapses  from  perfection;  a  man  might  as  well 
be  shocked  at  the  existence  of  a  poisonous 
snake  or  a  ravening  tiger.  One  must  "see 
life  steadily  and  see  it  whole,"  and  though 
we  may  and  must  hope  that  we  shall  struggle 
upwards  out  of  the  mess,  we  may  still  be 
amused  at  the  dolorous  figures  we  cut  in  the 
mire. 


Lauglitcr  127 

I  was  once  in  the  company  of  a  grave, 
decorous,  and  well-dressed  person  who  fell 
helplessly  into  a  stream  off  a  stepping-stone. 
I  had  no  wish  that  he  should  fall,  and  I  was 
perfectly  conscious  of  intense  sympathy  with 
his  discomfort;  but  I  found  the  scene  quite 
inexpressibly  diverting,  and  I  still  simmer 
with  laughter  at  the  recollection  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  trim  figure,  and  his  furious 
emergence,  like  an  oozy  water-god,  from  the 
pool.  It  is  not  in  the  least  an  ill-natured 
laughter.  I  did  not  desire  the  catastrophe, 
and  I  would  have  prevented  it  if  I  could; 
but  it  was  dreadfully  funny  for  all  that;  and 
if  a  similar  thing  had  happened  to  myself, 
I  should  not  resent  the  enjoyment  of  the 
scene  by  a  spectator,  so  long  as  I  was  helped 
and  sympathised  with,  and  the  merriment 
decently  repressed  before  me. 

I  think  that  what  is  called  practical  joking, 
which  aims  at  deliberately  producing  such 
situations,  is  a  wholly  detestable  thing.  But 
it  is  one  thing  to  sacrifice  another  person's 
comfort  to  one's  laughter,  and  quite  another 


128  Humour 

to  be  amused  at  what  a  fire-insurance  policy 
calls  the  act  of  God. 

And  I  am  very  sure  of  this,  that  the  sane, 
healthy,  well-balanced  nature  must  have  a 
fund  of  wholesome  laughter  in  him,  and 
that  so  far  from  tr>'ing  to  repress  a  sense  of 
humour,  as  an  unkind,  unworthy,  inhuman 
thing,  there  is  no  capacity  of  human  nature 
which  makes  life  so  frank  and  pleasant  a 
business.  There  are  no  companions  so  de- 
lightful as  the  people  for  whom  one  trea- 
sures up  jests  and  reminiscences,  because 
one  is  sure  that  they  will  respond  to  them 
and  enjoy  them;  and  indeed  I  have  found 
that  the  power  of  being  irresponsibly  amused 
has  come  to  my  aid  in  the  middle  of  really 
tragic  and  a"wful  circumstances,  and  has 
relieved  the  strain  more  than  anything  else 
could  have  done. 

I  do  not  say  that  humour  is  a  thing  to  be 
endlessly  indulged  and  sought  after;  but  to 
be  genuinely  amused  is  a  sign  of  courage 
and  amiability,  and  a  sign  too  that  a  man 
is  not  self-conscious  and  self-absorbed.     It 


Light-IIcartcdness  129 

ought  not  to  be  a  settled  preoccupation. 
Nothing  is  more  wearisome  than  the  habitual 
jester,  because  that  signifies  that  a  man 
is  careless  and  unobservant  of  the  moods 
of  others.  But  it  is  a  thing  which  should 
be  generously  and  freely  mingled  with  life; 
and  the  more  sides  that  a  man  can  see  to  any 
situation,  the  more  rich  and  full  his  nature 
is  sure  to  be. 

After  all,  our  power  of  taking  a  light- 
hearted  view  of  life  is  proportional  to  our 
interest  in  it,  our  belief  in  it,  our  hopes  of  it. 
Of  course,  if  we  conclude  from  our  little  piece 
of  remembered  experience,  that  life  is  a  woe- 
ful thing,  we  shall  be  apt  to  do  as  the  old  poets 
thought  the  nightingale  did, — to  lean  our 
breast  against  a  thorn,  that  we  may  suffer 
the  pain  which  we  propose  to  utter  in  liquid 
notes.  But  that  seems  to  me  a  false  senti- 
ment and  an  artificial  mode  of  life,  to  luxuri- 
ate in  sorrow;  even  that  is  better  than  being 
crushed  by  it;  but  we  may  be  sure  that  if 
we  wilfully  allow  ourselves  to  be  one-sided, 
it   is  a  delaying  of  our   progress.     All  ex- 


130  Humour 

perience  comes  to  us  that  we  may  not  be 
one-sided ;  and  if  we  leam  to  weep  with  those 
that  weep,  we  must  remember  that  it  is  no 
less  our  business  to  rejoice  with  those  that 
rejoice.  We  are  helped  beyond  measure 
by  those  who  can  tell  us  and  convince  us, 
as  poets  can,  that  there  is  something  beauti- 
ful in  sorrow  and  loss  and  severed  ties;  by 
those  who  show  us  the  splendour  of  courage 
and  patience  and  endurance;  but  the  true 
faith  is  to  believe  that  the  end  is  joy;  and 
we  therefore  owe  perhaps  the  largest  debt 
of  all  to  those  who  encourage  us  to  enjoy, 
to  laugh,  to  smile,  to  be  amused. 

And  so  we  must  not  retire  into  our  fortress 
simply  for  lonely  visions,  sweet  contempla- 
tion, gentle  imagination;  there  are  rooms  in 
our  castle  fit  for  that,  the  little  book-lined 
cell,  facing  the  sunset,  the  high  parlour, 
where  the  gay,  brisk  music  comes  tripping 
down  from  the  minstrels'  gallery,  the  dim 
chapel  for  prayer,  and  the  chamber  called 
Peace — where  the  pilgrim  slept  till  break  of 
day,  "and  then  he  awoke  and  sang";  but 


Social  Mirth  131 

there  is  also  the  well-Hghted  hall,  with 
cheerful  company  coming  and  going;  where 
we  must  put  our  secluded,  wistful,  sorrow- 
ful thought  aside,  and  mingle  briskly  with 
the  pleasant  throng,  not  steeling  ourselves 
to  mirth  and  movement,  but  simply  glad  and 
grateful  to  be  there. 

-  It  was  while  I  was  writing  these  pages 
that  a  friend  told  me  that  he  had  recently 
met  a  man,  a  merchant,  I  think,  who  did  me 
the  honour  to  discuss  my  writings  at  a 
party  and  to  pronounce  an  opinion  upon 
them.  He  said  that  I  wrote  many  things 
which  I  did  not  believe,  and  then  stood 
aside,  and  was  amused  in  a  humorous  mood 
to  see  that  other  people  believed  them.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  be,  or  even  to  feel, 
indignant  at  such  a  travesty  of  my  purpose  as 
this,  and  indeed  I  think  that  one  is  never 
very  indignant  at  misrepresentation  unless 
one's  mind  accuses  itself  of  its  being  true  or 
partially  true. 

It  is  indeed  true  that  I  have  said  things 
about  which  I  have  since  changed  my  mind, 


132  Humour 

as  indeed  I  hope  I  shall  continue  to  change 
it,  and  as  swiftly  as  possible,  if  I  see  that 
the  former  opinions  are  not  justified.  To 
be  thus  criticised  is,  I  think,  the  perfectly 
natural  penalty  of  having  tried  to  be  serious 
without  being  also  solemn;  there  are  many 
people,  and  many  of  them  very  worthy  people, 
like  our  friend  the  merchant,  who  cannot 
believe  one  is  in  earnest  if  one  Is  not  also 
heavy-handed.  Earnestness  is  mixed  up  in 
their  minds  with  bawling  and  sweating;  and 
indeed  it  is  quite  true  that  most  people  who 
are  willing  to  bawl  and  sweat  in  public,  feel 
earnestly  about  the  subjects  to  which  they 
thus  address  themselves.  But  I  do  not  see 
that  earnestness  is  in  the  least  incompatible 
with  lightness  of  touch  and  even  with 
humour,  though  I  have  sometimes  been 
accused  of  displaying  none.  Socrates  was 
in  earnest  about  his  ideas,  but  the  penalty 
he  paid  for  treating  them  lightly  was  that 
he  was  put  to  death  for  being  so  sceptical. 
I  shoiild  not  at  all  like  the  idea  of  being  put 
to  death  for  my  ideas;  but  I  am  wholly  in 


Earnestness  133 

earnest  about  them,  and  have  never  con- 
sciously said  anything  in  which  I  did  not 
believe. 

But  I  will  go  one  step  further  and  say 
that  I  think  that  many  earnest  men  do  great 
harm  to  the  causes  they  advocate,  because 
they  treat  ideas  so  heavily,  and  divest  them 
of  their  charm.  One  of  the  reasons  why 
virtue  and  goodness  are  not  more  attractive 
is  because  they  get  into  the  hands  of 
people  without  lightness  or  humour,  and 
even  without  courtesy;  and  thus  the  pur- 
suit of  virtue  seems  not  only  to  the  young, 
but  to  many  older  people,  to  be  a  boring 
occupation,  and  to  be  conducted  in  an 
atmosphere  heavy  with  disapproval,  with 
dreariness  and  dulness  and  tiresomeness 
hemming  the  neophyte  in,  like  fat  bulls  of 
Bashan.  It  is  because  I  should  like  to 
rescue  goodness,  which  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  world,  next  to  love,  from  these 
growing  influences,  that  I  have  written  as  I 
have  done;  but  there  is  no  lurking  cynicism 
in  my  books  at  all,  and  the  worst  thing  I 


134  Humour 

can  accuse  myself  of  is  a  sense  of  humour, 
perhaps  whimsical  and  childish,  which  seems 
to  me  to  make  a  pleasant  and  refreshing 
companion,  as  one  passes  on  pilgrimage  in 
search  of  what  I  believe  to  be  very  high  and 
heavenly  things  indeed. 


XV 

VISIONS 

I  USED  as  a  child  to  pore  over  the  Apo- 
calypse, which  I  thought  by  far  the  most 
beautiful  and  absorbing  of  all  the  books  of 
the  Bible;  it  seemed  full  of  rich  and  dim 
pictures,  things  which  I  could  not  interpret 
and  did  not  wish  to  interpret,  the  shining 
of  clear  gem-like  walls,  lonely  riders,  amaz- 
ing monsters,  sealed  books,  all  of  which 
took  perfectly  definite  shape  in  the  childish 
imagination.  The  consequence  is  that  I  can 
no  more  criticise  it  than  I  could  criticise  old 
tapestries  or  pictures  familiar  from  infancy. 
They  are  there,  just  so,  and  any  difference 
of  form  is  inconceivable. 

In  one  point,  however,  the  strange  visions 
have  come  to  hold  for  me  an  increased 
grandeur;   I   used  to   think  of  much   of   it 

135 


136  Visions 

as  a  sort  of  dramatic  performance,  self-con- 
sciously enacted  for  the  benefit  of  the 
spectator;  but  now  I  think  of  it  as  an  aw^ul 
and  spontaneous  energy  of  spiritual  life 
going  on,  of  which  the  prophet  was  enabled 
to  catch  a  glimpse.  Those  "  voices  crying 
day  and  night "  "the  new  song  that  was  sung 
before  the  throne,"  the  cry  of  "Come  and 
see" — these  were  but  part  of  a  vast  and 
urgent  business,  which  the  prophet  was 
allowed  to  overhear.  It  is  not  a  silent  place, 
that  highest  heaven,  of  indolence  and  placid 
peace,  but  a  scene  of  fierce  activity  and  the 
clamour  of  mighty  voices. 

And  it  is  the  same  too  of  another  strange 
scene — the  Transfiguration;  not  an  impres- 
sive spectacle  arranged  for  the  Apostles, 
but  a  peep  into  the  awful  background  behind 
life.  Let  me  use  a  simple  parable :  Imagine 
a  man  who  had  a  friend  whom  he  greatly 
admired  and  loved,  and  suppose  him  to  be 
talking  with  his  friend,  who  suddenly  excuses 
himself  on  the  plea  of  an  engagement  and 
goes  out;   and   the   other   follows   him,   out 


The  Transfiguration  137 


*£> 


of  curiosity,  and  sees  him  meet  another  man 
and  talk  intently  with  him,  not  deferentially 
or  humbly,  but  as  a  man  talks  with  an  equal. 
And  then  drawing  nearer  he  might  suddenly 
see  that  the  man  his  friend  has  gone  out  to 
meet,  and  with  whom  he  is  talking  so  in- 
tently, is  some  high  minister  of  State,  or 
even  the  King  himself! 

That  is  a  simple  comparison,  to  make  clear 
what  the  Apostles  might  have  felt.  They 
had  gone  into  the  mountain  expecting 
their  Master  to  speak  quietly  to  them  or  to 
betake  himself  to  silent  prayer;  and  then 
they  find  him  robed  in  light  and  holding 
converse  with  the  spirits  of  the  air,  telling 
his  plans,  so  to  speak,  to  two  great  prophets 
of  the  ancient  world. 

If  this  had  been  but  a  pageant  enacted  for 
their  benefit  to  dazzle  and  bewilder  them, 
it  would  have  been  a  poor  and  self-conscious 
affair;  but  it  becomes  a  scene  of  portentous 
mystery,  if  one  thinks  of  them  as  being  per- 
mitted to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  high,  urgent, 
and  terrifying  things  that  were  going  on  all 


138  Visions 

the  time  in  the  unseen  background  of  the 
Saviour's  mind.  The  essence  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  scene  is  that  it  was  overheard. 
And  thus  I  think  that  wonder  and  beauty, 
those  two  mighty  forces,  take  on  a  very 
different  value  for  us  when  we  can  come  to 
reaUse  that  they  are  small  hints  given  us, 
tiny  glimpses  conceded  to  us,  of  some  very 
great  and  mysterious  thing  that  h  pressingly 
and  speedily  proceeding,  every  day  and 
every  hour,  in  the  vast  background  of  life; 
and  we  ought  to  realise  that  it  is  not  only 
human  life  as  we  see  it  which  is  the  active, 
busy,  forceful  thing;  that  the  world  with 
all  its  noisy  cities,  its  movements  and  its 
bustle,  is  not  a  burning  point  hung  in  dark- 
ness and  silence,  but  that  it  is  just  a  little 
fretful  affair  with  infinitely  larger,  louder, 
fiercer,  stronger  powers,  working,  moving, 
pressing  onwards,  thundering  in  the  back- 
ground; and  that  the  huge  forces,  laws, 
activities,  behind  the  world,  are  not  per- 
ceived by  us  any  more  than  we  perceive 
the  vast  motion  of  great  winds,  except  in 


Inconsistency  139 

so  far  as  we  see  the  face  of  the  waters 
rippled  by  them,  or  the  trees  bowed  all  one 
way  in  their  passage. 

It  is  very  easy  to  be  so  taken  up  with  the 
little  absorbing  businesses,  the  froth  and 
ripple  of  life,  that  we  forget  what  great  and 
secret  influences  they  must  be  that  cause 
them;  we  must  not  forget  that  we  are  only 
like  children  playing  in  the  nursery  of  a 
palace,  while  in  the  Council-room  beneath 
us  a  debate  may  be  going  on  which  is  to 
affect  the  lives  and  happiness  of  thousands 
of  households. 

And  therefore  the  more  that  we  make  up 
our  little  beliefs  and  ideas,  as  a  man  folds 
up  a  little  packet  of  food  which  he  is  to  eat 
on  a  journey,  and  think  in  so  doing  that  we 
have  got  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  all  our 
aims  and  problems,  the  more  utterly  we  are 
failing  to  take  in  the  significance  of  what  is 
happening.  We  must  never  allow  ourselves 
to  make  up  our  minds,  and  to  get  our  theories 
comfortably  settled,  because  then  experience 
is  at  an  end  for  us,  and  we  shall  see  no  more 


HO  Visions 

than  we  expect  to  see.  We  ought  rather 
to  be  amazed  and  astonished,  day  by  day, 
at  all  the  wonderful  and  beautiful  things  we 
encounter,  the  marvellous  hints  of  loveliness 
which  we  see  in  faces,  woods,  hills,  gardens, 
all  showing  some  tremendous  force  at  work, 
often  thwarted,  often  spoiled,  but  still  work- 
ing, with  an  infinity  of  tender  patience,  to 
make  the  world  exquisite  and  fine.  There 
are  ugly,  coarse,  disgusting  things  at  work 
too — we  cannot  help  seeing  that;  but  even 
many  of  them  seem  to  be  destroying,  in 
corruption  and  evil  odour,  something  that 
ought  not  to  be  there,  and  striving  to  be 
clean  and  pure  again. 

I  often  wonder  whose  was  the  mind  that 
conceived  the  visions  of  the  Apocalypse; 
if  we  can  trust  tradition,  it  was  a  confined 
and  exiled  Christian  in  a  lonely  island, 
whose  spirit  reached  out  beyond  the  little 
crags  and  the  beating  seas  of  his  prison,  and 
in  the  seeming  silent  heaven  detected  the 
gathering  of  monsters,  the  war  of  relentless 
forces — and  beyond  it  all  the  radiant  energies 


Behind  tlic  Veil  141 

of  saints,  glad  to  be  together  and  unanimous, 
in  a  place  where  light  and  beauty  at  last 
could  reign  triumphant. 

I  know  no  literature  more  ineffably  dreary 
than  the  parcelling  out  of  these  wild  and 
glorious  visions,  the  attaching  of  them  to 
this  and  that  petty  human  fulfilment.  That 
is  not  the  secret  of  the  Apocalypse!  It  is 
rather  as  a  painter  may  draw  a  picture  of 
two  lovers  sitting  together  at  evening  in  a 
latticed  chamber,  holding  each  other's  hands, 
gazing  in  each  other's  eyes.  He  is  not 
thinking  of  particular  persons  in  an  actual 
house;  it  is  rather  a  hint  of  love  making 
itself  manifest,  recognising  itself  to  be  met 
with  an  answering  rapture.  And  what  I 
think  that  the  prophet  meant  was  rather  to 
show  that  we  must  not  be  deceived  by  cares 
and  anxieties  and  daily  business;  but  that 
behind  the  little  simmering  of  the  world  was 
a  tumult  of  vast  forces,  voices  crying  and 
answering,  thunder,  fire,  infinite  music.  It  is 
all  a  command  to  recognise  unseen  greatness, 
to  take  every  least  experience  we  can,  and 


142  Visions 

crush  from  it  all  its  savour;  not  to  be  afraid 
of  the  great  emotions  of  the  world,  love  and 
sorrow  and  loss;  but  only  to  be  afraid  of 
what  is  petty  and  sordid  and  mean.  And 
then  perhaps,  as  in  that  other  vision,  we 
may  ascend  once  into  a  mountain,  and  there 
in  weariness  and  drowsiness,  dumbly  be- 
wildered by  the  night  and  the  cold  and  the 
discomforts  of  the  unkindly  airi  life  may  be 
for  a  moment  transfigured  into  a  radiant 
figure,  still  familiar  though  so  glorified; 
and  we  may  see  it  for  once  touch  hands  and 
exchange  words  with  old  and  wise  spirits; 
and  all  this  not  only  to  excite  us  and  be- 
wilder us,  but  so  that  by  the  drawing  of  the 
veil  aside,  we  may  see  for  a  moment  that 
there  is  some  high  and  splendid  secret,  some 
celestial  business  proceeding  with  solemn 
patience  and  strange  momentousness,  a  rite 
which  if  we  cannot  share,  we  may  at  least 
know  is  there,  and  waiting  for  us,  the  moment 
that  we  are  strong  enough  to  take  our  part! 


XVI 

THOUGHT 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  had  once  a  strange  dream ; 
he-  seemed  to  himself  to  be  walking  in  a  day 
of  high  summer  on  a  grassy  moorland  leading 
up  to  some  fantastically  piled  granite  crags. 
He  made  his  way  slowly  thither;  it  was  ter- 
ribly hot  there  among  the  sun-warmed  rocks, 
and  he  found  a  little  natural  cave,  among 
the  great  boulders,  fringed  with  fern.  There 
he  sate  for  a  long  time  while  the  sun  passed 
over,  and  a  little  breeze  came  wandering  up 
the  moor.  Opposite  him  as  he  sate  was  the 
face  of  a  great  pile  of  rocks,  and  while  his 
eye  dwelt  upon  it,  it  suddenly  began  to  wink 
and  glisten  with  little  moving  points,  dots 
so  minute  that  he  could  hardly  distinguish 
them.  Suddenly,  as  if  at  a  signal,  the  little 
points  dropped  from  the  rock,  and  the  whole 

143 


144  Thought 

surface  seemed  alive  with  gossamer  threads, 
as  if  a  silken,  silvery  curtain  had  been  let 
down;  presently  the  little  dots  reached  the 
grass  and  began  to  crawl  over  it;  and  then 
he  saw  that  each  of  them  was  attached  to 
one  of  the  fine  threads;  and  he  thought  that 
they  were  a  colony  of  minute  spiders,  living 
on  the  face  of  the  rocks.  He  got  up  to  see 
this  wonder  close  at  hand,  bufc  the  moment 
he  moved,  the  whole  curtain  was  drawn  up 
with  incredible  swiftness,  as  if  the  threads 
were  highly  elastic;  and  when  he  reached 
the  rock,  it  was  as  hard  and  solid  as  before, 
nor  could  he  discover  any  sign  of  the  little 
creatures.  "Ah,"  he  said  to  himself  in  the 
dream,  "that  is  the  meaning  of  the  living 
rock!"  and  he  became  aware,  he  thought, 
that  all  rocks  and  stones  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth  must  be  thus  endowed  with  life, 
and  that  the  rocks  were,  so  to  speak,  but 
the  shell  that  contained  these  innumerable 
little  creatures,  incredibly  minute,  living, 
silken  threads,  with  a  small  head,  like  boring 
worms,  inhabiting  burrows  which  went  far 


A  Dream  145 

into  the  heart  of  the  granite,  and  each  with 
a  strong  retractile  power. 

I  told  this  dream  to  a  geologist  the  other 
day,  who  laughed.  "An  ingenious  idea,"  he 
said,  "and  there  may  even  be  something  in 
it!  It  is  not  by  any  means  certain  that 
stones  do  not  have  a  certain  obscure  life  of 
their  own;  I  have  sometimes  thought  that 
their  marvellous  cohesion  may  be  a  sign  of 
life,  and  that  if  life  were  withdrawn,  a  moun- 
tain might  in  a  moment  become  a  heap  of 
sliding  sand." 

My  friend  said  that  the  dream  made  such 
an  impression  upon  him  that  for  a  time  he 
found  it  hard  to  believe  that  stones  and 
rocks  had  not  this  strange  and  secret  life 
lurking  in  their  recesses;  and  indeed  it  has 
since  stood  to  me  as  a  symbol  of  life,  haunt- 
ing and  penetrating  all  the  very  hardest 
and  driest  things.  It  seems  to  me  that  just 
as  there  are  almost  certainly  more  colours 
than  our  eyes  can  perceive,  and  sounds 
either  too  acute  or  too  deliberate  for  our 

ears  to  hear,  so  the  domain  of  life  may  be 
10 


146  Thoui^ht 


much  further  extended  in  the  earth,  the  air, 
the  waters,  than  we  can  tangibly  detect. 

It  seems,  too,  to  show  me  that  it  is  our 
business  to  try  ceaselessly  to  discover  the 
secret  life  of  thought  in  the  world;  not  to 
conclude  that  there  is  no  vitality  in  thought 
unless  we  can  ourselves  at  once  perceive  it. 
This  is  particularly  the  case  with  books. 
Sometimes,  in  our  College  Library,  I  take 
down  an  old  folio  from  the  shelves,  and  as 
I  turn  the  crackling,  stained,  irregular  pages 
— it  may  be  a  volume  of  controversial  divinity 
or  outworn  philosophy — it  seems  impossible 
to  imagine  that  it  can  ever  have  been  woven 
out  of  the  live  brain  of  man,  or  that  anyone 
can  ever  have  been  found  to  follow  those 
old,  vehement,  insecure  arguments,  starting 
from  unproved  data,  and  leading  to  erroneous 
and  fanciful  conclusions.  The  whole  thing 
seems  so  faded,  so  dreary,  so  remote  from 
reality,  that  one  cannot  even  dimly  imagine 
the  frame  of  mind  which  originated  it,  and 
still  less  the  mood  which  fed  upon  such 
things. 


Geology  147 

Yet  I  very  much  doubt  if  the  aims,  ideas, 
hopes  of  man,  have  altered  very  much  since 
the  time  of  the  earliest  records.  When  one 
comes  to  reaHse  that  geologists  reckon  a 
period  of  thirty  million  years  at  least,  while 
the  Triassic  rocks,  that  is  the  lowest  stratum 
that  shows  signs  of  life,  were  being  laid 
down;  and  that  all  recorded  history  is  but 
an  infinitesimal  drop  in  the  ocean  of  un- 
recorded time,  one  sees  at  least  that  the 
force  behind  the  world,  by  whatever  name 
we  call  it,  is  a  force  that  cannot  by  any 
means  be  hurried,  but  that  it  works  with  a 
leisureliness  which  we  with  our  brief  and 
hasty  span  of  life  cannot  really  in  any  sense 
conceive.  Still,  it  seems  to  have  a  plan! 
Those  strange  homed,  humped,  armoured 
beasts  of  prehistoric  rocks  are  all  bewilder- 
ingly  like  ourselves  so  far  as  physical  con- 
struction goes;  they  had  heart,  brain,  eyes, 
lungs,  legs,  a  similarly  planned  skeleton;  it 
seems  as  if  the  creative  spirit  was  working 
by  a  well-conceived  pattern,  was  trying  to 
make  a  very  definite  kind  of  thing;  there  is 


148  Thought 

not  by  any  means  an  infinite  variety,  when 
one  considers  the  sort  of  creatures  that  even 
a  man  could  devise  and  invent,  if  he  tried. 
There  is  the  same  sort  of  continuity  and 
unity   in   thought.     The   preoccupations   of 
man  are  the  same  in  all  ages — to  provide 
for  his  material  needs,  and  to  speculate  what 
can  possibly  happen  to  his  spirit,  when  the 
body,    broken    by    accident    or*  disease    or 
decay,  can  no  longer  contain  his  soul.     The 
best    thought    of    man    has    always     been 
centred   on   trying   to   devise   some   sort   of 
future  hope  which  could  encourage  him  to 
live    eagerly,    to    endure    patiently,    to    act 
rightly.     As  science  opens  her  vast  volume 
before  us,   we  naturally  become  more  and 
more  impatient  of  the  hasty  guesses  of  man, 
in  religion  and  philosophy,  to  define  what 
we  cannot  yet  know;  but  we  ought  to  be 
very   tender   of   the   old   passionate   beliefs, 
the  intense  desire  to  credit  noble  and  lofty 
spirits,    such    as    Buddha    and    Mahomet, 
w4th  some  source   of   divinely   given   know- 
ledge.    Yet  of  course  there  is  an  inevitable 


Law  149 

sadness  when  we  find  the  old  certainties 
dissolving  in  mist;  and  we  must  be  very- 
careful  to  substitute  for  them,  if  they  slip 
from  our  grasp,  some  sort  of  principle  which 
will  give  us  freshness  and  courage.  To  me, 
I  confess,  the  tiny  certainties  of  science  are 
far  more  inspiring  than  the  most  ardent 
reveries  of  imaginative  men.  The  knowledge 
that  there  is  in  the  world  an  inflexible  order, 
and  that  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see,  and 
not  what  we  would  like  to  believe,  is  in- 
finitely refreshing  and  sustaining.  I  feel 
that  I  am  journeying  onwards  into  what  is 
unknown  to  me,  but  into  something  which 
is  inevitably  there,  and  not  to  be  altered  by 
my  own  hopes  and  fancies.  It  is  like  taking 
a  voyage,  the  pleasure  of  which  is  that  the 
sights  in  store  are  unexpected  and  novel; 
for  a  voyage  would  be  a  very  poor  thing  if 
we  knew  exactly  what  lay  ahead,  and  poorer 
still  if  we  could  determine  beforehand  what 
we  meant  to  see,  and  could  only  behold  the 
pictures  of  our  own  imaginations.  That  is 
the  charm  and  the  use  of  experience,  that  it 


150  Thought 

is  not  at  all  what  we  expect  or  hope.  It  is 
in  some  ways  sadder  and  darker;  but  it  is  in 
most  ways  far  more  rich  and  wonderful  and 
radiant  than  we  had  dreamed. 

What  I  grow  impatient  of  are  the  censures 
of  rigid  people,  who  desire  to  limit  the 
hopes  and  possibilities  of  others  by  the  little 
foot-rule  which  they  have  made  for  them- 
selves. That  is  a  very  petty  *and  even  a 
very  wicked  thing  to  do,  that  old  persecuting 
instinct  which  says,  "I  will  make  it  as  un- 
pleasant for  you  as  I  can,  if  you  will  not 
consent  at  all  events  to  pretend  to  believe 
what  I  think  it  right  to  believe. "  A  man  of 
science  does  not  want  to  persecute  a  child 
who  says  petulantly  that  he  will  not  believe 
the  law  of  gravity.  He  merely  smiles  and 
goes  on  his  way.  The  law  of  gravity  can 
look  after  itself!  Persecution  is  as  often  as 
not  an  attempt  to  reassure  oneself  about 
one's  own  beliefs;  it  is  not  a  sign  of  an 
untroubled  faith. 

We  must  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  shaken 
by  any  attempt  to  dictate  to  us  what  we 


Belief  in  Life  151 

should  believe.  We  need  not  always  pro- 
test against  it,  unless  we  feel  it  a  duty  to 
do  so;  we  may  simply  regard  another's 
certainties  as  things  which  are  not  and 
cannot  be  proved.  Argument  on  such  sub- 
jects is  merely  a  waste  of  time;  but  at  the 
same  time  we  ought  to  recognise  the  vitality 
which  lies  behind  such  tenacious  beliefs,  and 
be  glad  that  it  is  there,  even  if  we  think  it 
to  be  mistaken. 

And  this  brings  me  back  to  my  first  point, 
which  is  that  it  is  good  for  us  to  try  to 
realise  the  hidden  life  of  the  world,  and  to 
rejoice  in  it  even  though  it  has  no  truth  for 
us.  We  must  never  disbelieve  in  life,  even 
though  in  sickness  and  sorrow  and  age  it 
may  seem  to  ebb  from  us;  and  we  must  try 
at  all  costs  to  recognise  it,  to  sympathise 
with  it,  to  put  ourselves  in  touch  with  it, 
even  though  it  takes  forms  unintelligible 
and  even  repugnant  to  ourselves. 

Let  me  try  to  translate  this  into  very 
practical  matters.  We  many  of  us  find  our- 
selves in  a  fixed  relation  to  a  certain  circle 


152  Thought 

of  people.  We  cannot  break  with  them  or 
abandon  them.  Perhaps  our  liveHhood  de- 
pends upon  them,  or  theirs  upon  us.  Yet 
we  may  find  them  harsh,  unsympathetic, 
unkind,  objectionable.  What  are  we  to  do? 
Many  people  let  the  whole  tangle  go,  and 
just  creep  along,  doing  what  they  do  not 
like,  feeling  unappreciated  and  misunder- 
stood,  just  hoping  to  avoid  active  collisions 
and  unpleasant  scenes.  That  is  a  very 
spiritless  business!  What  we  ought  to  do 
is  to  find  points  of  contact,  even  at  the  cost 
of  some  repression  of  our  own  views  and 
aims.  And  we  ought  too  to  nourish  a  fine 
life  of  our  own,  to  look  into  the  lives  of 
other  people,  which  can  be  done  perhaps 
best  in  large  books,  fine  biographies,  great 
works  of  imagination  and  fiction.  We  must 
not  drowse  and  brood  in  our  own  sombre 
corner,  when  life  is  flowing  free  and  full 
outside  as  in  some  flashing  river.  How- 
ever little  chance  we  may  seem  to  have  of 
doing  anything,  we  can  at  least  determine 
to  be  something;  not  to  let  our  life  be  filled, 


Doctrines  153 

like  some  base  vessel,  with  the  offscourings 
and  rinsings  of  other  spirits,  but  to  remember 
that  the  water  of  life  is  given  freely  to  all 
who  come.  That  is  the  worst  of  our  dull 
view  of  the  great  Gospel  of  Christ.  We 
think — I  do  not  say  this  profanely  but 
seriously — of  that  water  of  life  as  a  series 
of  propositions  like  the  Athanasian  Creed ! 

Christ  meant  something  very  different  by 
the  water  of  life.  He  meant  that  the  soul 
that  was  athirst  could  receive  a  draught  of 
a  spring  of  cool  refreshment  and  living  joy. 
He  did  not  mean  a  set  of  doctrines ;  doctrines 
are  to  life  what  parchments  and  title-deeds 
are  to  an  estate  with  woods  and  waters, 
fields  and  gardens,  houses  and  cottages,  and 
live  people  moving  to  and  fro.  It  is  of  no 
use  to  possess  the  title-deed  if  one  does  not 
visit  one's  estate.  Doctrines  are  an  attempt 
to  state,  in  bare  and  precise  language,  ideas 
and  thoughts  dear  and  fresh  to  the  heart. 
It  is  in  qualities,  hopes,  and  affections  that 
we  live;  and  if  our  eyes  are  opened,  we  can 
see,    as    my    friend    dreamed    he    saw,    the 


154  Thought 

surface  of  the  hard  rock  full  of  moving 
points,  and  shimmering  with  threads  of 
swift  life,  when  the  sun  has  fallen  from  the 
height,  and  the  wind  comes  cool  across  the 
moor  from  the  open  gates  of  the  evening. 


XVII 

ACCESSIBILITY 

I  WAS  greatly  interested  the  other  day  by 
seeing  a  photograph,  in  his  old  age,  of  Henry 
Phillpotts,  the  redoubtable  Bishop  of  Exeter, 
who  lost  more  money  in  lawsuits  with 
clergymen  than  any  Bishop,  I  suppose,  who 
ever  lived.  He  sate,  the  old  man,  in  his 
clumsily  fitting  gaiters,  bowed  or  crouched 
in  an  arm-chair,  reading  a  letter.  His  face 
was  turned  to  the  spectator;  with  his  stiff, 
upstanding  hair,  his  out-thrust  lip,  his  corru- 
gated brow,  and  the  deep  pouched  lines 
beneath  his  eyes,  he  looked  like  a  terrible 
old  lion,  who  could  no  longer  spring,  but 
who  had  not  forgotten  how  to  roar.  His 
face  was  full  of  displeasure  and  anger.  I 
remembered  that  a  clergyman  once  told  me 
how  he  had  been  sitting  next  the  Bishop  at 

155 


156  Accessibility 

a  dinner  of  parsons,  and  a  young  curate, 
sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bishop, 
affronted  him  by  believing  him  to  be  deaf, 
and  by  speaking  very  loudly  and  distinctly 
to  him.  The  Bishop  at  last  turned  to  him, 
with  a  furious  visage,  and  said,  "I  would 
have  you  to  understand,  sir,  that  I  am  not 
deaf!"  This  disconcerted  the  young  man 
so  much  that  he  could  neither  speak  nor 
eat.  The  old  Bishop  turned  to  my  friend, 
and  said,  in  a  heavy  tone,  "I  'm  not  fit  for 
society!"  Indeed  he  was  not,  if  he  could 
unchain  so  fierce  a  beast  on  such  slight 
provocation. 

And  there  are  many  other  stories  of  the 
bitter  things  he  said,  and  how  his  displeasure 
could  brood  like  a  cloud  over  a  whole  com- 
pany. He  was  a  gallant  old  figure,  it  is 
true,  very  energetic,  very  able,  determined 
to  do  what  he  thought  right,  and  infinitely 
courageous.  I  mused  over  the  portrait, 
thought  how  lifelike  and  picturesque  it  was, 
and  how  utterly  unlike  one's  idea  of  an  aged 
Christian  or  a  chief  shepherd.     In  his  beauti- 


Bishop  Phillpotts  157 

ful  villa  by  the  sea,  with  its  hanging  woods 
and  gardens,  ruling  with  diligence,  he  seemed 
to  me  more  like  a  stoical  Roman  Emperor, 
or  a  tempestuous  Sadducee,  the  spirit  of  the 
world  incarnate.  One  wondered  what  it 
could  have  been  that  had  drawn  him  to 
Christ,  or  what  part  he  would  have  taken 
if  he  had  been  on  the  Sanhedrin  that  judged 
Him! 

It  seems  to  me  that  one  of  the  first  charac- 
teristics which  one  ought  to  do  one's  best  to 
cast  out  of  one's  life  is  that  of  formidable- 
ness.  Yet  to  tell  a  man  that  he  is  formidable 
is  not  an  accusation  that  is  often  resented. 
He  may  indulgently  deprecate  it,  but  it 
seems  to  most  people  a  sort  of  testimonial 
to  their  force  and  weight  and  influence,  a 
penalty  that  they  have  to  pay  for  being 
effective,  a  matter  of  prestige  and  honour. 
Of  course,  an  old,  famous,  dignified  man 
who  has  played  a  great  part  on  the  stage 
of  life  must  necessarily  be  approached  by 
the  young  with  a  certain  awe.  But  there 
is  no  charm   in   the   world  more   beautiful 


158  Accessibility 

than  the  charm  which  can  permeate  dignity, 
give  confidence,  awake  affection,  dissipate 
dread.  But  if  a  man  of  that  sort  indulges 
his  moods,  says  what  he  thinks  bluntly  and 
fiercely,  has  no  mercy  on  feebleness  or 
ignorance,  he  can  be  a  very  dreadful  per- 
sonage indeed! 

Accessibility  is  one  of  the  first  of  Christian 
virtues;  but  it  is  not  always  easy  to  practise, 
because  a  man  of  force  and  ability,  who  is 
modest  and  shy,  forgets  as  life  goes  on  how 
much  more  his  influence  is  felt.  He  himself 
does  not  feel  at  all  different  from  what  he 
was  when  he  was  young,  when  he  was 
snubbed  and  silenced  and  set  down  in  argu- 
ment. Perhaps  he  feels  that  the  world  is  a 
kinder  and  an  easier  place,  as  he  grows  into 
deference  and  esteem,  but  it  is  the  surest 
sign  of  a  noble  and  beautiful  character  if  the 
greater  he  becomes  the  more  simple  and 
tender  he  also  becomes. 

I  was  greatly  interested  the  other  day  in 
attending  a  meeting  at  which,  among  other 
speakers,  two  well-known  men  spoke.     The 


Two  Speakers  159 

first  was  a  man  of  great  renown  and  pres- 
tige, and  he  made  a  very  beautiful,  lofty,  and 
tender  discourse;  but,  from  some  shyness 
or  gravity  of  nature,  he  never  smiled  or 
looked  at  his  audience;  and  thus,  fine  though 
his  speech  was,  he  never  got  into  touch  with 
us  at  all.  The  second  speech  was  far  more 
obvious  and  commonplace,  but  the  speaker, 
on  beginning,  cast  a  friendly  look  round  and 
smiled  on  the  audience ;  and  he  did  the  same 
all  the  time,  so  that  one  had  at  once  a  friendly 
sense  of  contact  and  geniality,  and  I  felt  that 
every  word  was  addressed  to  me  personally. 
That  is  what  it  is  to  be  accessible ! 

One  of  the  best  ways  in  which  we  can 
keep  the  spirit  of  poetry — by  which  I  mean 
the  higher,  sweeter,  purer  influences  of 
thought — alive  in  one's  heart,  is  by  accessi- 
bility— by  determining  to  speak  freely  of 
what  one  admires  and  loves,  what  moves 
and  touches  one,  what  keeps  one's  mind 
upon  the  inner  and  finer  life.  It  is  not 
always  possible  or  indeed  convenient  for 
younger  people  to  do  this,  for  reasons  which 


i6o  Accessibility 

are  not  wholly  bad  reasons.  Young  people 
ought  not  to  be  too  eager  to  take  the  lead 
in  talk,  nor  ought  they  to  be  too  openly 
impatient  of  the  more  sedate  and  prosaic 
discourse  of  their  elders;  and  then,  too, 
there  is  a  time  for  all  things;  one  cannot 
keep  the  mind  always  on  the  strain;  and 
the  best  and  most  beautiful  things  are 
apt  to  come  in  glimpses  and  4iints,  and  are 
not  always  arrived  at  by  discussion  and 
argument. 

There  is  a  story  of  a  great  artist  full  of 
sympathy  and  kindness,  to  whom  in  a  single 
day  three  several  people  came  to  confide  sad 
troubles  and  trials.  The  artist  told  the  story 
to  his  wife  in  the  evening.  He  said  that  he 
was  afraid  that  the  third  of  the  visitors 
thought  him  strangely  indifferent  and  even 
unkind.  "The  fact  was, "  he  said,  "that  my 
capacity  for  sympathy  was  really  exhausted. 
I  had  suffered  so  much  from  the  first  two 
recitals  that  I  could  not  be  sorry  any  more. 
I  said  I  was  sorry,  and  I  was  sorry  far  down 
in  my  mind,  but  I  could  not  feel  sorry.     I 


Sympathy  i6i 

had  given  all  the  sympathy  I  had,  and  it  was 
no  use  going  again  to  the  well  when  there 
was  no  more  water."  This  shows  that  one 
cannot  command  emotion,  and  that  one 
must  not  force  even  thoughts  of  beauty  upon 
others.  We  must  bide  our  time,  we  must 
adapt  ourselves,  and  we  must  not  be  instant 
in  -season  and  out  of  season.  Yet  neither 
must  we  be  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  moods. 
In  religion,  the  theory  of  liturgical  worship 
is  an  attempt  to  realise  that  we  ought  to 
practise  religious  emotion  with  regularity. 
We  do  not  always  feel  we  are  miserable 
sinners  when  we  say  so,  and  we  sometimes 
feel  that  we  are  when  we  do  not  say  it;  but 
it  is  better  to  confess  what  we  know  to  be 
true,  even  if  at  that  moment  we  do  not  feel 
it  to  be  true. 

We  ought  not  then  always,  out  of  modesty, 
to  abstain  from  talking  about  the  things 
for  which  we  care.  A  foolish  shyness  will 
sometimes  keep  two  sympathetic  people 
from  ever  talking  freely  together  of  their 
real  hopes  and  interests.     We  are  terribly 


i62  Accessibility 

afraid  in  England  of  what  we  call  priggish- 
ness.  It  is  on  the  whole  a  wholesome 
tendency,  but  it  is  the  result  of  a  lack  of 
flexibility  of  mind.  What  we  ought  to  be 
afraid  of  is  not  seriousness  and  earnestness, 
but  solemnity  and  pomposity.  We  ought 
to  be  ready  to  vary  our  mood  swiftly,  and 
even  to  see  the  humorous  side  of  sacred 
and  beautiful  things.  The  opj5ressiveness  of 
people  who  hold  a  great  many  things  sacred, 
and  cannot  bear  that  they  should  be  jested 
about,  is  very  great.  There  is  nothing  that 
takes  all  naturalness  out  of  intercourse  more 
quickly  than  the  habit  which  some  people 
have  of  begging  that  a  subject  may  not  be 
pursued  "because  it  is  one  on  which  I  feel 
very  deeply."  That  is  the  essence  of  prig- 
gishness,  to  feel  that  our  reasons  are  better, 
our  motives  purer,  than  the  reasons  of  other 
people,  and  that  we  have  the  privilege  of 
setting  a  standard.  Conscious  superiority 
is  the  note  of  the  prig;  and  we  have  the 
right  to  dread  it. 

But  the  Gospel  again  is  full  of  precepts  in 


Intimacy  163 

favour  of  frankness,  outspokenness,  letting 
light  shine  out,  speaking  sincerely;  only  it 
must  not  be  done  provokingly,  condescend- 
ingly, solemnly.  It  is  well  for  everyone  to 
have  a  friend  or  friends  with  whom  he  can 
talk  quite  unaffectedly  about  what  he  cares 
for  and  values;  and  he  ought  to  be  able  to 
say  to  such  a  friend,  "I  cannot  talk  about 
these  things  now;  I  am  in  a  dusty,  prosaic, 
grubby  mood,  and  I  want  to  make  mud- 
pies";  the  point  is  to  be  natural,  and  yet  to 
keep  a  watch  upon  nature;  not  to  force  her 
into  cramped  postures,  and  yet  not  to  indulge 
her  in  rude,  careless,  and  vulgar  postures. 
It  is  a  bad  sign  in  friendship,  if  intimacy 
seems  to  a  man  to  give  him  the  right  to 
be  rude,  coarse,  boisterous,  censorious,  if 
he  will.  He  may  sometimes  be  betrayed 
into  each  and  all  of  these  things,  and  be  glad 
of  a  safety-valve  for  his  ill-humours,  knowing 
that  he  will  not  be  permanently  misunder- 
stood by  a  sympathetic  friend.  But  there 
must  be  a  discipline  in  all  these  things,  and 
nature  must  often  give  way  and  be  broken 


164  Accessibility 

in;  frankness  must  not  degenerate  into 
boorishness,  and  liberty  must  not  be  the 
power  of  interfering  with  the  liberty  of 
the  friend.  One  must  force  oneself  to  be 
courteous,  interested,  sweet-tempered,  when 
one  feels  just  the  contrary;  one  must  keep 
in  sight  the  principle,  and  if  violence  must 
be  done  it  must  not  be  done  to  the  better 
nature.  Least  of  all  must  one  deliberately 
take  up  the  role  of  exercising  influence. 
That  is  a  sad  snare  to  many  fine  natures. 
One  sees  a  weak,  attractive  character,  and 
it  seems  so  tempting  to  train  it  up  a  stick, 
to  fortify  it,  to  mould  it.  If  one  is  a  pro- 
fessed teacher,  one  has  to  try  this  some- 
times; but  even  then,  the  temptation  to 
drive  rather  than  lead  must  be  strenuously 
resisted. 

I  have  always  a  very  dark  suspicion  of 
people  who  talk  of  spheres  of  influence,  and 
who  enjoy  consciously  affecting  other  lives. 
If  this  is  done  professionally,  as  a  joyful  sort 
of  exercise,  it  is  deadly.  The  only  excuse 
for   it   is   that   one   really   cares   for   people 


Solemnity  165 

and  longs  to  be  of  use;  one  cannot  pump 
one's  own  tastes  and  character  into  others. 
The  only  hope  is  that  they  should  develop 
their  own  qualities.  Other  people  ought 
not  to  be  "problems"  to  us;  they  may  be 
mysteries,  but  that  is  quite  another  thing. 
To  love  people,  if  one  can,  is  the  only  way. 
To  find  out  what  is  lovable  in  them  and  not 
to  try  to  discover  what  is  malleable  in  them 
is  the  secret.  A  wise  and  witty  lady,  who 
knows  that  she  is  tempted  to  try  to  direct 
other  lives,  told  me  that  one  of  her  friends 
once  remonstrated  with  her  by  saying  that 
she  ought  to  leave  something  for  God  to  do! 
I  know  a  very  terrible  and  well-meaning 
person,  who  once  spoke  severely  to  me  for 
treating  a  matter  with  levity.  I  lost  my 
temper,  and  said,  "You  may  make  me 
ashamed  of  it,  if  you  can,  but  you  shall  not 
bully  me  into  treating  a  matter  seriously 
which  I  think  is  wholly  absurd."  He  said, 
"You  do  not  enough  consider  the  grave 
issues  which  may  be  involved."  I  replied 
that  to  be  for  ever  considering  grave  issues 


1 66  Accessibility 

seemed  to  me  to  make  life  stuffy  and  un- 
wholesome. My  censor  sighed  and  shook 
his  head. 

We  cannot  coerce  anyone  into  anything 
good.  We  may  salve  our  own  conscience 
by  trying  to  do  so,  we  may  even  level  an 
immediate  difficulty;  but  a  free  and  generous 
desire  to  be  different  is  the  only  hope  of  vital 
change.  The  detestable  Purijan  fibre  that 
exists  in  many  of  us,  which  is  the  most 
utterly  unchristian  thing  I  know,  tempts  us 
to  feel  that  no  discipline  is  worth  anything 
unless  it  is  dark  and  gloomy;  but  that  is 
the  discipline  of  the  law-court  and  the  prison, 
and  has  never  remedied  anything  since  the 
world  began.  Wickedness  is  nearly  always, 
perhaps  always,  a  moral  invalidism,  and  we 
shall  see  some  day  that  to  punish  men  for 
crime  by  being  cruel  to  them  is  like  con- 
demning a  man  to  the  tread-mill  for  hav- 
ing typhoid  fever.  I  can  only  say  that  the 
more  I  have  known  of  human  beings,  and 
the  older  I  grow,  the  more  lovable,  gentle, 
sweet-tempered  I  have  found  them  to  be. 


Carlyle  167 

The  life  of  Carlyle  seems  to  me  to  be  one 
of  the  most  terrible  and  convincing  docu- 
ments in  the  world  in  proof  of  what  I  have 
been  saying.  The  old  man  was  so  bent  on 
battering  and  bumping  people  into  righteous- 
ness, so  in  love  with  spluttering  and  vituper- 
ating and  thundering  all  over  the  place,  that 
he  missed  the  truest  and  sweetest  ministry 
of  love.  He  broke  his  wife's  heart,  and  it  is 
idle  to  pretend  he  did  not.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
was  a  sharp-edged  woman  too,  and  hurt  her 
own  life  by  her  bitter  trenchancy.  But 
there  was  enough  true  love  and  loyalty  and 
chivalry  in  the  pair  to  furnish  out  a  hundred 
marriages.  Yet  one  sees  Carlyle  stamping 
and  cursing  through  life,  and  never  seeing 
what  lay  close  to  his  hand.  I  admire  his 
life,  not  because  it  was  a  triumph,  but  be- 
cause it  was  such  a  colossal  failure,  and  so 
finely  atoned  for  by  the  noble  and  great- 
minded  repentance  of  a  man  who  recognised 
at  last  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  begin  by  try- 
ing to  be  ruler  over  ten  cities,  unless  he  was 
first  faithful  in  a  few  things. 


XVIII 

SYMPATHY 

But  there  is  one  thing  which  we  must  con- 
stantly bear  in  mind,  and  which  all  en- 
thusiastic  people  must  particularly  recollect, 
namely,  that  our  delight  and  interest  in  life 
must  be  large,  tolerant,  and  sympathetic, 
and  that  we  must  not  only  admit  but  wel- 
come an  immense  variety  of  interests.  We 
must  above  all  things  be  just,  and  we  must  be 
ready  to  be  both  interested  and  amused  by 
people  whom  we  do  not  like.  The  point 
is  that  minds  should  be  fresh  and  clear, 
rather  than  stagnant  and  lustreless.  En- 
thusiastic people,  who  feel  very  strongly 
and  eagerly  the  beauty  of  one  particular 
kind  of  delight,  are  sadly  apt  to  wish  to 
impose  their  own  preferences  upon  other 
minds,   and    not    to    believe    in    the   worth 

1 68 


The  Unpardonable  Sin        169 

of  others'  preferences.  Thus  the  men  who 
feel  very  ardently  the  beauty  of  the  Greek 
Classics  are  apt  to  insist  that  all  boys  shall 
be  brought  up  upon  them;  and  the  same 
thing  happens  in  other  matters.  We  must 
not  make  a  moral  law  out  of  our  own  tastes 
and  preferences,  and  we  must  be  content 
that  others  should  feel  the  appeal  of  other 
sorts  of  beauty;  that  was  the  mistake  which 
dogged  the  radiant  path  of  Ruskin  from 
first  to  last,  that  he  could  not  bear  that 
other  people  should  have  their  own  pre- 
ferences, but  considered  that  any  dissidence 
from  his  own  standards  was  of  the  nature 
of  sin.  If  we  insist  on  all  agreeing  with 
ourselves  it  is  sterile  enough;  but  if  we 
begin  calling  other  people  hard  names,  and 
suspecting  or  vituperating  their  motives  for 
disagreeing  with  us,  we  sin  both  against 
Love  and  Light.  It  was  that  spirit  which 
called  forth  from  Christ  the  sternest  denun- 
ciation which  ever  fell  from  His  lips.  The 
Pharisees  tried  to  discredit  His  work  by  re- 
presenting Him  as  in  league  with  the  powers 


170  Sympathy 

of  evil;  and  this  sin,  which  is  the  imputing 
of  evil  motives  to  actions  and  beliefs  that 
appear  to  be  good,  because  our  own  beliefs 
are  too  narrow  to  include  them,  is  the  sin 
which  Christ  said  could  find  no  forgiveness. 
I  had  a  personal  instance  of  this  the  other 
day  which  illustrates  so  clearly  what  I  mean 
that  I  will  quote  it.  I  wrote  a  book  called 
The  Child  of  the  Dawn,  the  point  of  which  was 
to  represent,  in  an  allegor>',  my  sincere  belief 
that  the  after-life  of  man  must  be  a  life  of 
effort,  and  experience,  and  growth.  A  lady 
wrote  me  a  very  discourteous  letter  to  say 
that  she  believed  the  after-life  to  be  one  of 
Rest,  and  that  she  held  what  she  believed  to 
be  my  view  to  be  unchristian  and  untrue. 
The  notion  that  ardent,  loving,  eager  spirits 
should  be  required  to  spend  eternity  in  a 
sort  of  lazy  contentment,  forbidden  to  stir 
a  finger  for  love  and  truth  and  right,  is  surely 
an  insupportable  one!  What  would  be  the 
joy  of  heaven  to  a  soul  full  of  energy  and 
love,  condemned  to  such  luxurious  apathy, 
forced    to    drowse     through    the    ages      in 


Censoriousness  171 

epicurean  ease?  If  heaven  has  any  mean- 
ing at  all,  it  must  satisfy  our  best  and  most 
active  aspirations;  and  a  paradise  of  utter 
and  eternal  indolence  would  be  purgatory 
or  hell  to  all  noble  natures.  But  this 
poor  creature,  tired  no  doubt  by  life  and 
its  anxieties,  overcome  by  dreariness  and 
sorrow,  was  not  only  desirous  of  solitary 
and  profound  repose,  but  determined  to 
impose  her  own  theory  upon  all  the  world 
as  well.  I  blame  no  one  for  desiring  rest; 
but  to  wish,  as  she  made  no  secret  that  she 
wished,  to  crush  and  confound  one  who 
thought  and  hoped  otherwise,  does  seem  to 
me  a  very  mean  and  wretched  point  of  view. 
That,  alas,  is  what  many  people  mean  when 
they  say  that  they  believe  a  thing,  namely, 
that  they  would  be  personally  annoyed  if  it 
turned  out  to  be  different  from  what  they 
hoped. 

I  am  sure  that  we  ought  rather  to  wel- 
come with  all  our  might  any  evidence  of 
strength  and  energy  and  joy,  even  if  they 
seem    to    spring    from    principles    entirely 


172  Sympathy 

opposite  to  our  own.  The  more  we  know 
of  men  and  women,  the  more  we  ought  to 
perceive  that  half  the  trouble  in  the  world 
comes  from  our  calling  the  same  principles 
by  different  names.  We  are  not  called  upon 
to  give  up  our  own  principles,  but  we  must 
beware  of  trying  to  meddle  with  the  principles 
of  other  people. 

And  therefore  we  must  never*  be  disturbed 
and  still  less  annoyed  by  other  people  find- 
ing fault  with  our  tastes  and  principles, 
calling  them  fantastic  and  sentimental,  weak 
and  affected,  so  long  as  they  do  not  seek  to 
impose  their  own  beliefs  upon  us.  That  they 
should  do  so  is  of  course  a  mistake;  but  we 
must  recognise  that  it  comes  either  from  the 
stupidity  which  is  the  result  of  a  lack  of 
sympathy,  or  else  from  the  nobler  error  of 
holding  an  opinion  strongly  and  earnestly. 
We  must  never  be  betrayed  into  making  the 
same  mistake ;  we  may  try  to  persuade,  and 
it  is  better  done  by  example  than  by  argu- 
ment, but  we  must  never  allow  ourselves  to 
scoff  and  deride,  and  still  less  to  abuse  and 


The  Other  Point  of  View      173 

vilify.  We  must  rather  do  our  best  to 
understand  the  other  point  of  view,  and  to 
acquiesce  in  the  possibility  of  its  being  held, 
even  if  we  cannot  understand  it.  We  must 
take  for  granted  that  everyone  whose  life 
shows  evidence  of  energy,  unselfishness, 
joyfulness,  ardour,  peacefulness,  is  truly  in- 
spired by  the  spirit  of  good.  We  must 
believe  that  they  have  a  vision  of  beauty 
and  delight,  born  of  the  spirit.  We  must 
rejoice  if  they  are  making  plain  to  other 
minds  any  interpretation  of  life,  any  enrich- 
ment of  motive,  any  protest  against  things 
coarse  and  low  and  mean.  We  may  wish — 
and  we  may  try  to  persuade  them — that  their 
hopes  and  aims  were  wider,  more  bounti- 
ful, and  more  inclusive,  but  if  we  seek  to 
exclude  those  hopes  and  aims,  however 
inconsistent  they  may  be  with  our  own,  that 
moment  the  shadow  involves  our  own  hopes, 
because  our  desire  must  be  that  the  world 
may  somehow  become  happier,  fuller,  more 
joyful,  even  if  it  is  not  on  the  lines  which 
we  ourselves  approve. 


174  Sympathy 

I  know  so  many  good  people  who  are 
anxious  to  increase  happiness,  but  only  on 
their  own  conditions;  they  feel  that  they 
estimate  exactly  what  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  joy  ought  to  be,  and  they  treat 
the  joy  which  they  do  not  themselves  feel  as 
an  offence  against  truth.  It  is  from  these 
beliefs,  I  have  often  thought,  that  much  of 
the  unhappiness  of  family  circles  arises,  the 
elders  not  realising  how  the  world  moves 
on,  how  new  ioeas  come  to  the  front,  how 
the  old  hopes  fade  or  are  transmuted.  They 
see  their  children  liking  different  thoughts, 
different  occupations,  new  books,  new  plea- 
sures; and  instead  of  trying  to  enter  into 
these  things,  to  believe  in  their  innocence 
and  their  naturalness,  they  try  to  crush  and 
thwart  them,  with  the  result  that  the  boys 
and  girls  just  hide  their  feelings  and  desires, 
and  if  they  are  not  shamed  out  of  them,  which 
sometimes  happens,  they  hold  them  secretly 
and  half  sullenly,  and  plan  how  to  escape 
as  soon  as  they  can  from  the  tender  and 
anxious  constraint  into  a  real  world  of  their 


Elasticity  175 

own.  And  the  saddest  part  of  all  is  that  the 
younger  generation  learn  no  experience  thus; 
but  when  they  form  a  circle  of  their  own  and 
the  same  expansion  happens,  they  do  as 
their  parents  did,  saying  to  themselves,  "My 
parents  lost  my  confidence  by  insisting  on 
what  was  not  really  important;  but  my  ob- 
jections are  reasonable  and  justifiable,  and 
my  children  must  trust  me  to  know  what  is 
right." 

We  must  realise  then  that  elasticity  and 
sympathy  are  the  first  of  duties,  and  that  if 
we  embark  upon  the  crusade  of  joy,  we  must 
do  it  expecting  to  find  many  kinds  of  joy 
at  work  in  the  world,  and  some  which  we 
cannot  understand.  We  may  of  course 
mistrust  destructive  joy,  the  joy  of  selfish 
pleasure,  rough  combativeness,  foolish  waste- 
fulness, ugly  riot — all  the  joys  that  are 
evidently  dogged  by  sorrow  and  pain;  but 
if  we  see  any  joy  that  leads  to  self-restraint 
and  energy  and  usefulness  and  activity,  we 
must  recognise  it  as  divine. 

We  may  have  then  our  private  fancies, 


176  Sympathy 

our  happy  pursuits,  our  sweet  delights;  we 
may  practise  them,  sure  that  the  best  proof 
of  their  energy  is  that  they  obviously  and 
plainly  increase  and  multiply  our  own 
happiness.  But  if  we  direct  others  at  all, 
it  must  be  as  a  sign-post,  pointing  to  a  part- 
ing of  roads  and  making  the  choice  clear, 
and  not  as  a  policeman  enforcing  the  majesty 
of  our  self-invented  laws. 

Everything  that  helps  us,  invigorates  us, 
comforts  us,  sustains  us,  gives  us  life,  is 
right  for  us ;  of  that  we  need  never  be  in  any 
doubt,  provided  always  that  our  delight 
is  not  won  at  the  expense  of  others;  and  we 
must  allow  and  encourage  exactly  the  same 
liberty  in  others  to  choose  their  own  rest, 
their  own  pleasure,  their  own  refreshment. 
What  would  one  think  of  a  host,  whose  one 
object  was  to  make  his  guests  eat  and  drink 
and  do  exactly  what  he  himself  enjoyed? 
And  yet  that  is  precisely  what  many  of  the 
most  conscientious  people  are  doing  all  day 
long,  in  other  regions  of  the  soul  and  mind. 

The  one  thing  which  we  have  to  fear,  in 


Effectiveness  177 

all  this,  is  of  lapsing  into  indolence  and  soli- 
tary enjoyment,  guarding  and  hoarding  our 
own  happiness.  We  must  measure  the  effec- 
tiveness of  our  enjoyment  by  one  thing  and 
one  thing  alone — our  increase  of  affection 
and  sympathy,  our  interest  in  other  minds 
and  lives.  If  we  only  end  by  desiring  to  be 
apart  from  it  all,  to  gnaw  the  meat  we  have 
torn  from  life  in  a  secret  cave  of  our  devising, 
to  gain  serenity  by  indifference,  then  we  must 
put  our  desires  aside;  but  if  it  sends  us  into 
the  world  with  hope  and  energy  and  interest 
and  above  all  affection,  then  we  need  have 
no  anxiety;  we  may  enter  like  the  pilgrims 
into  comfortable  houses  of  refreshment, 
where  we  can  look  with  interest  at  pictures 
and  spiders  and  poultry  and  all  the  pleasant 
wonders  of  the  place;  we  may  halt  in  way- 
side arbours  to  taste  cordials  and  confections, 

and  enjoy  from  the  breezy  hill-top  the 
pleasant  vale  of  Beulah,  with  the  celestial 
mountains  rising  blue  and  still  upon  the  far 

horizon. 
i» 


XIX 

SCIENCE 

I  READ  the  other  day  a  very  downright  book, 
with  a  kind  of  drj--  insolence  about  it,  by  a 
man  who  was  concerned  witH  stating  what 
he  called  the  mechanistic  theory  of  the  uni- 
verse. The  worlds,  it  seemed,  were  like  a 
sandy  desert,  with  a  wind  that  whirled  the 
sands  about;  and  indeed  I  seemed,  as  I 
looked  out  on  the  world  through  the  writer's 
eyes,  to  see  nothing  but  wind  and  sand! 
One  of  his  points  was  that  every  thought 
that  passed  through  the  mind  was  preceded 
by  a  change  in  the  particles  of  the  brain;  so 
that  philosophy,  and  religion,  and  life  itself 
were  nothing  but  a  shifting  of  the  sand  by 
the  impalpable  wind — matter  and  motion, 
that  was  all!     Again  and  again  he  said,  in 

his  dry  way,  that  no  theory  was  of  any  use 

178 


Molecular  Action  179 

that  was  not  supported  by  facts;  and  that 
though  there  was  left  a  little  corner  of 
thought,  which  was  still  unexplained,  we 
should  soon  have  some  more  facts,  and  the 
last  mystery  would  be  hunted  down. 

But  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  read  it,  that  the 
thoughts  of  man  were  just  as  much  facts  as 
any  other  facts,  and  that  when  a  man  had  a 
vision  of  beauty,  or  when  a  hope  came  to  him 
in  a  bitter  sorrow,  it  was  just  as  real  a  thing 
as  the.  little  particle  of  the  brain  which 
stirred  and  crept  nearer  to  another  particle. 
I  do  not  say  that  all  theories  of  religion  and 
philosophy  are  necessarily  true,  but  they 
are  real  enough;  they  have  existed,  they 
exist,  they  cannot  die.  Of  course,  in  making 
out  a  theory,  we  must  not  neglect  one  set  of 
facts  and  depend  wholly  on  another  set 
of  facts;  but  I  believe  that  the  intense  and 
pathetic  desire  of  humanity  to  know  why 
they  are  here,  why  they  feel  as  they  do, 
why  they  suffer  and  rejoice,  what  awaits 
them,  are  facts  just  as  significant  as  the 
blood  that   drips   from   the   wound,   or   the 


i8o  Science 

leaf  that  unfolds  in  the  sun.  The  comfort- 
ing and  uplifting  conclusion  which  the  writer 
came  to  was  that  we  were  just  a  set  of  ani- 
mated puppets,  spun  out  of  the  drift  of 
sand  and  dew  by  the  thing  that  he  called 
force.  But  if  that  is  so,  why  are  we  not 
all  perfectly  complacent  and  contented,  why 
do  we  love  and  grieve  and  wish  to  be  differ- 
ent? I  do  still  believe  that  there  is  a  spirit 
that  mingles  with  our  hopes  and  dreams, 
something  personal,  beautiful,  fatherly,  pure, 
something  which  is  unwillingly  tied  to  earth 
and  would  be  free  if  it  could.  The  sense 
that  we  are  ourselves  wholly  separate  and 
distinct,  with  experience  behind  us  and  ex- 
perience before  us,  seems  to  me  a  fact  beside 
which  all  other  facts  pale  into  insignificance. 
And  next  in  strength  to  that  seems  the  fact 
that  we  can  recognise,  and  draw  near  to,  and 
be  amazingly  desirous  of,  as  well  as  no  less 
strangely  hostile  to,  other  similar  selves;  that 
our  thought  can  mingle  with  theirs,  pass  into 
theirs,  as  theirs  into  ours,  forging  a  bond 
which  no  accident  of  matter  can  dissolve. 


The  Message  of  God  i8i 

Does  it  really  satisfy  the  lover,  when  he 
knows  that  his  love  is  answered,  to  realise 
that  it  is  all  the  result  of  some  preceding 
molecular  action  of  the  brain?  That  does 
not  seem  to  me  so  much  a  truculent  state- 
ment as  a  foolish  statement,  shirking,  like  a 
glib  and  silly  child,  the  most  significant  of 
data.  And  I  think  we  shall  do  well  to 
say  to  our  scientist,  as  courteously  as  Sir 
Launcelot  said  to  the  officious  knight,  who 
proffered  unnecessary  service,  that  we  have 
no  need  for  him  at  this  time. 

Now,  I  am  not  saying,  in  all  this,  that  the 
investigation  of  science  is  wrong  or  futile. 
It  is  exactly  the  reverse;  the  message  of 
God  is  hidden  in  all  the  minutest  material 
things  that  lie  about  us;  and  it  is  a  very 
natural  and  even  noble  work  to  explore  it; 
but  it  is  wrong  if  it  leads  us  to  draw  any 
conclusions  at  present  beyond  what  we  can 
reasonably  and  justly  draw.  It  is  the  infer- 
ence that  what  explains  the  visible  scheme 
of  things  can  also  explain  the  invisible. 
That  is  wrong ! 


i82  Science 

Let  me  here  quote  a  noble  sentence,  which 
has  often  given  me  much-needed  help,  and 
served  to  remind  me  that  thought  is  after  all 
as  real  a  thing  as  matter,  when  I  have  been 
tempted  to  feel  otherwise.  It  was  written 
by  a  very  wise  and  tender  philosopher, 
William  James,  who  was  never  betrayed 
by  his  own  severe  standard  of  truth  and 
reality  into  despising  the  common  dreams 
and  aspirations  of  simpler  men.     He  wrote: 

"I  find  it  preposterous  to  suppose  that  if 
there  be  a  feeling  of  unseen  reality,  shared 
by  numbers  of  the  best  men  in  their  best 
moments,  responded  to  by  other  men  in 
their  deep  moments,  good  to  live  by,  strength- 
giving — I  find  it  preposterous,  I  say,  to 
suppose  that  the  goodness  of  that  feeling 
for  living  purposes  should  be  held  to  carry 
no  objective  significance,  and  especially 
preposterous  if  it  combines  harmoniously 
with  an  otherwise  grounded  philosophy  of 
objective  truth." 

That  is  a  very  large  and  tolerant  utter- 
ance,  both   in  its  suspension   of  impatient 


Dogmatism  183 

certainties  and  in  its  beautiful  sympathy 
with  all  ardent  visions  that  cannot  clearly 
and  convincingly  find  logical  utterance. 

What  I  am  trying  to  say  in  this  little  book 
is  not  addressed  to  professional  philosophers 
or  men  of  science,  who  are  concerned  with 
intellectual  investigation,  but  to  those  who 
have  to  live  life  as  it  is,  as  the  vast  majority 
of  men  must  always  do.  What  I  rather  beg 
of  them  is  not  to  be  alarmed  and  bewildered 
by  the  statements  either  of  scientific  or 
religious  dogmatists.  No  doubt  we  should 
like  to  know  everything,  to  have  all  our  per- 
plexities resolved;  but  we  have  reached  that 
point  neither  in  religion  nor  in  philosophy, 
nor  even  in  science.  We  must  be  content 
not  to  know.  But  because  we  do  not  know, 
we  need  not  therefore  refuse  to  feel;  there 
is  no  excuse  for  us  to  thrust  the  whole 
tangle  away  and  out  of  sight,  and  just  to  do 
as  far  as  possible  what  we  like.  We  may 
admire  and  hope  and  love,  and  it  is  our 
business  to  do  all  three.  The  thing  that 
seems  to  me — and  I  am  here  only  stating  a 


184  Science 

personal  view — both  possible  and  desirable, 
is  to  live  as  far  as  we  can  by  the  law  of 
beauty,  not  to  submit  to  anything  by  which 
our  soul  is  shamed  and  insulted,  not  to  be 
drawn  into  strife,  not  to  fall  into  miserable 
fault-finding,  not  to  allow  ourselves  to  be 
fretted  and  fussed  and  agitated  by  the  cares 
of  life;  but  to  say  clearly  to  ourselves, 
"that  is  a  petty,  base,  mean  thbught,  and  I 
will  not  entertain  it;  this  is  a  generous  and 
kind  and  gracious  thought,  and  I  will  wel- 
come it  and  obey  it." 

One  of  the  clearly  discernible  laws  of  life 
is  that  we  can  both  check  and  contract 
habits;  and  when  we  begin  our  day,  we  can 
begin  it  if  we  will  by  prayer  and  aspiration 
and  resolution,  as  much  as  we  can  begin  it 
with  bath  and  toilet.  We  can  say,  "I  will 
live  resolutely  to-day  in  joy  and  good- 
humour  and  energy  and  kindliness. "  Those 
powers  and  possibilities  are  all  there;  and 
even  if  we  are  overshadowed  by  disappoint- 
ment and  anxiety  and  pain,  we  can  say  to 
ourselves  that  we  will  behave  as  if  it  were 


The  Power  of  Choice         185 

not  so;  because  there  is  undoubtedly  a 
very  real  and  noble  pleasure  in  putting  off 
shadows  and  troubles,  and  not  letting  them 
fall  in  showers  on  those  about  us.  We  need 
not  be  stoical  or  affectedly  bright;  we  often 
cannot  give  those  who  love  us  greater  joy 
than  to  tell  them  of  our  troubles  and  let 
them  comfort  us.  And  we  can  be  practical 
too  in  our  outlook,  because  much  of  the 
grittiest  irritation  of  life  is  caused  by  in- 
dulging indolence  when  we  ought  not,  and 
being  hurried  when  we  might  be  leisurely. 
It  is  astonishing  how  a  little  planning  will 
help  us  in  all  this,  and  how  soon  a  habit 
is  set  up.  We  do  not,  it  is  true,  know  the 
limits  of  our  power  of  choice.  But  the  illu- 
sion, if  it  be  an  illusion,  that  we  have  a 
power  of  choice,  is  an  infinitely  more  real 
fact  to  most  of  us  than  the  molecular  motion 
of  the  brain  particles. 

And  then  too  there  is  another  fact,  which 
is  becoming  more  and  more  clear,  namely, 
what  is  called  the  power  of  suggestion.  That 
if  we  can  put  a  thought  into  our  mind,  not 


i86  Science 

into  our  reason,  but  into  our  inner  mind  of 
instinct  and  force,  whether  it  be  a  base 
thought  or  a  noble  thought,  it  seems  to  soak 
unconsciously  into  the  very  stuff  of  the  mind, 
and  keep  reproducing  itself  even  when  we 
seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  And 
this  is,  I  believe,  one  of  the  uses  of  prayer, 
that  we  put  a  thought  into  the  mind,  which 
can  abide  with  us,  secretly  it  may  be,  all  the 
day;  and  that  thus  it  is  not  a  mere  pious 
habit  or  tradition  to  have  a  quiet  period  at 
the  beginning  of  the  day,  in  which  we  can 
nurture  some  joyful  and  generous  hope, 
but  as  real  a  source  of  strength  to  the  spirit 
as  the  morning  meal  is  to  the  body.  I 
have  myself  found  that  it  is  well,  if  one 
can,  to  read  a  fragment  of  some  fine,  gen- 
erous, beautiful,  or  noble-minded  book  at 
such  an  hour. 

There  is  in  many  people  who  work  hard 
with  their  brains  a  curious  and  unreal  mood 
of  sadness  which  hangs  about  the  waking 
hour,  which  I  have  thought  to  be  a  sort  of 
hunger  of  the  mind,  craving  to  be  fed;  and 


Suggestion  187 

this  is  accompanied,  at  least  in  me,  by  a  very 
swift,  clear,  and  hopeful  apprehension,  so 
that  a  beautiful  thought  comes  to  me  as  a 
draught  of  water  to  a  thirsty  man.  So  I 
make  haste,  as  often  as  may  be,  just  to  drop 
such  a  thought  at  those  times  into  the  mind; 
it  falls  to  the  depths,  as  one  may  see  a  bright 
coin  go  gleaming  and  shifting  down  to  the 
depths  of  a  pool;  or  to  use  a  homelier  simili- 
tude, like  sugar  that  drops  to  the  bottom  of  a 
cup,  sweetening  the  draught. 

These  are  little  homely  things;  but  it  is 
through  simple  use  and  not  through  large 
theory  that  one  can  best  practise  joy. 


XX 


WORK 


I  CAME  out  of  the  low-arched  door  with  a 
sense  of  relief  and  passed  into^the  sunshine; 
the  meeting  had  broken  up,  and  we  went 
our  ways.  We  had  sate  there  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  old  panelled  room,  a  dozen  full- 
blooded  friendly  men  discussing  a  small 
matter  with  wonderful  ingenuity  and  zest; 
and  I  had  spoken  neither  least  nor  most 
mildly,  and  had  found  it  all  pleasant  enough. 
Then  I  mounted  my  bicycle  and  rode  out 
into  the  fragrant  country  alone,  with  all 
its  nearer  green  and  further  blue;  there  in 
that  little  belt  of  space,  between  the  thin 
air  above  and  the  dense-dark  earth  beneath, 
was  the  pageant  of  conscious  life  enacting 
itself  so  visibly  and  eagerly.  In  the  sunlit 
sky  the  winds  raced  gaily  enough,  with  the 

1 88 


Vivid  Life  189 

void  silence  of  moveless  space  above  it; 
below  my  feet  what  depths  of  cold  stone, 
with  the  secret  springs;  below  that  perhaps 
a  core  of  molten  heat  and  imprisoned  fire! 

What  was  it  all  about?  What  were  we 
all  doing  there?  What  was  the  significance 
of  the  little  business  that  had  been  engaging 
our  minds  and  tongues?  What  part  did  it 
play  in  the  mighty  universe? 

The  thorn-tree  thick  with  bloom,  pouring 
out  its  homely  spicy  smell — it  was  doing 
too,  beautifully  enough,  what  we  had  been 
doing  clumsily.  It  was  living,  intent  on  its 
own  conscious  life,  the  sap  hurrying,  the 
scent  flowing,  the  bud  waxing.  The  yellow- 
hammer  poising  and  darting  along  the  hedge, 
the  sparrow  twittering  round  the  rick,  the 
cock  picking  and  crowing,  were  all  intent 
on  life,  proclaiming  that  they  were  alive  and 
busy.  Something  vivid,  alert,  impassioned 
was  going  forward  everywhere,  something 
being  effected,  something  uttered — and  yet 
the  cause  how  utterly  hidden  from  me  and 
from  every  living  thing! 


190  Work 

The  memory  of  old  poetry  began  to  flicker 
in  my  mind  like  summer  lightning.  In  the 
orchard,  crammed  with  bloom,  two  unseen 
children  were  calling  to  each  other;  a  sun- 
burned, careless,  graceful  boy,  whose  rough 
clothes  could  not  conceal  his  shapely  limbs 
and  easy  movements,  came  driving  some 
cows  along  the  lane.  He  asked  me  the  time 
in  Dorian  speech.  The  shepherds  piping 
together  on  the  Sicilian  headland  could  not 
have  made  a  fairer  picture;  and  yet  the  boy 
and  I  could  hardly  have  had  a  thought  in 
common! 

All  the  poets  that  ever  sang  in  the  pleasant 
springtime  can  hardly  have  felt  the  joyful 
onrush  of  the  season  more  sweetly  than  I 
felt  it  that  day;  and  yet  no  philosopher  or 
priest  could  have  given  me  a  hint  of  what 
the  mystery  was,  why  so  ceaselessly  re- 
newed; but  it  was  clear  to  me  at  least  that 
the  mind  behind  it  was  joyful  enough,  and 
wished  me  to  share  its  joy. 

And  then  an  hour  later  I  was  doing,  for 
no  reason  but  that  it  was  my  business,  the 


Gymnastic  191 

dullest  of  tasks — no  less  than  revising  a 
whole  sheaf  of  the  driest  of  examination 
papers.  Elaborate  questions  to  elicit  know- 
ledge of  facts  arid  and  meaningless,  which 
it  was  worth  no  human  being's  while  to 
know,  unless  he  could  fill  out  the  bare 
outlines  with  some  of  the  stuff  of  life. 
Hundreds  of  boys,  I  dare  say,  in  crowded 
schoolrooms  all  over  the  country,  were 
having  those  facts  drummed  into  them, 
with  no  aim  in  sight  but  the  answering  of 
the  questions  which  I  was  manipulating. 
That  was  a  bewildering  business,  that  we 
should  insist  on  that  sort  of  drilling  becom- 
ing a  part  of  life.  Was  that  a  relation  it 
was  well  to  establish?  As  the  fine  old, 
shrewd,  indolent  Dr.  Johnson  said,  he  for 
his  part,  while  he  lived,  never  again  desired 
even  to  hear  of  the  Punic  War!  And  again 
he  said,  "You  teach  your  daughters  the 
diameters  of  the  planets,  and  wonder,  when 
you  have  done,  why  they  do  not  desire  your 
company." 

Cannot    we   somehow    learn  to    simplify 


192  Work 

life?  Must  we  continue  to  think  that  we 
can  inspire  children  in  rows?  Is  it  not 
possible  for  us  to  be  a  little  less  important 
and  pompous  and  elaborate  about  it  all,  to 
aim  at  more  direct  relations,  to  say  more 
what  we  feel,  to  do  more  what  nature  bids 
us  do? 

The  heart  sickens  at  the  thought  of  how 
we  keep  to  the  grim  highways  of  life,  and 
leave  the  pleasant  spaces  of  wood  and  field 
un visited!  And  all  because  we  want  more 
than  we  need,  and  because  we  cannot 
be  content  unless  we  can  be  envied  and 
admired. 

The  cure  for  all  this,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
a  resolute  avoidance  of  complications  and 
intricacies,  a  determination  to  live  life  more 
on  our  own  terms,  and  to  open  our  eyes 
to  the  simpler  pleasures  which  lie  waiting 
in  our  way  on  every  side. 

I  do  not  believe  in  the  elaborate  organis- 
ation of  life;  and  yet  I  think  it  is  possible 
to  live  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  yet  not  to  be 
involved  in  it.     I  do  not  believe  in  fierce 


Combat  193 

rebellion,  but  I  do  believe  in  quiet  trans- 
formation; and  here  comes  in  the  faith 
that  I  have  in  Joyous  Card.  I  believe  that, 
day  by  day,  we  should  clear  a  space  to  live 
with  minds  that  have  felt  and  hoped  and 
enjoyed.  That  is  the  first  duty  of  all;  and 
then  that  we  should  live  in  touch  with  the 
natural  beauty  of  the  earth,  and  let  the 
sweetness  of  it  enter  into  our  minds  and 
hearts;  for  then  we  come  out  renewed,  to 
find  the  beauty  and  the  fulness  of  life  in  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  those  about  us.  Life 
is  complicated,  not  because  its  issues  are 
not  simple  enough,  but  because  we  are  most 
of  us  so  afraid  of  a  phantom  which  we  create 
— the  criticism  of  other  human  beings. 

If  one  reads  the  old  books  of  chivalry, 
there  seems  an  endless  waste  of  combat 
and  fighting  among  men  who  had  the  same 
cause  at  heart,  and  who  yet  for  the  pettiest 
occasions  of  dispute  must  needs  try  to  inflict 
death  on  each  other,  each  doing  his  best 
to  shatter  out  of  the  world  another  human 

being  who  loved  life  as  well.     Two  doughty 
13 


1 94  Work 

knights,  Sir  Lamorak  and  Sir  Meliagraunce, 
must  needs  hew  pieces  off  each  other's 
armour,  break  each  other's  bones,  spill  each 
other's  blood,  to  prove  which  of  two  ladies 
is  the  fairer;  and  when  it  is  all  over,  nothing 
whatever  is  proved  about  the  ladies,  nothing 
but  which  of  the  two  knights  is  the  stronger! 
And  yet  we  seem  to  be  doing  the  same  thing 
to  this  day,  except  that  we  no\^  try  to  wound 
the  heart  and  mind,  to  make  a  fellow-man 
afraid  and  suspicious,  to  take  the  light  out 
of  his  day  and  the  energy  out  of  his  work. 
For  the  last  few  weeks  a  handful  of  earnest 
clergymen  have  been  endeavouring  in  a 
Church  paper,  with  floods  of  pious  Billings- 
gate, to  make  me  ridiculous  about  a  technical 
question  of  archaeological  interest,  and  all 
because  my  opinion  differs  from  their  own! 
I  thankfully  confess  that  as  I  get  older,  I 
care  not  at  all  for  such  foolish  controversy, 
and  the  only  qualms  I  have  are  the  qualms 
I  feel  at  finding  human  beings  so  childish 
and  so  fretful. 

Well,  it  is  all  very  curious,  and  not  without 


Our  Business  195 

its  delight  too!  What  I  earnestly  desire  is 
that  men  and  women  should  not  thus  waste 
precious  time  and  pleasant  life,  but  go 
straight  to  reality,  to  hope.  There  are  a 
hundred  paths  that  can  be  trodden;  only 
let  us  be  sure  that  we  are  treading  our  own 
path,  not  feebly  shifting  from  track  to 
track,  not  following  too  much  the  bidding 
of  others,  but  knowing  what  interests  us, 
what  draws  us,  what  we  love  and  desire; 
and  above  all  keeping  in  mind  that  it  is 
our  business  to  understand  and  admire  and 
conciliate  each  other,  whether  we  do  it  in 
a  panelled  room,  with  pens  and  paper  on 
the  table,  and  the  committee  in  full  cry;  or 
out  on  the  quiet  road,  with  one  whom  we 
trust  entirely,  where  the  horizon  runs,  field 
by  field  and  holt  by  holt,  to  meet  the  soft 
verge  of  encircling  sky. 


XXI 

HOPE 

The  other  day  I  took  up  idly  some  magazine 
or  other,  one  of  those  great  lemon-coloured, 
salmon-hued,  slaty  paper  volumes  which  lie 
in  rows  on  the  tables  of  my  club.  I  will  not 
stop  now  to  inquire  why  English  taste 
demands  covers  which  show  every  mean 
stain,  every  soiled  finger-print;  but  these 
volumes  are  always  a  reproach  to  me,  be- 
cause they  show  me,  alas!  how  many  sub- 
jects, how  many  methods  of  presenting 
subjects,  are  wholly  uninteresting  and  un- 
attractive to  my  trivial  mind.  This  time, 
however,  my  eye  fell  upon  a  poem  full  of 
light  and  beauty,  and  of  that  subtle  grace 
which  seems  so  incomprehensible,  so  un- 
created—a lyric  by  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes.  It 
was  like  a  spell  which  banished  for  an  in- 

196 


Pessimism  197 

stant  the  weariness  born  of  a  long,  hot, 
tedious  committee,  the  oppression  which 
always  falls  on  me  at  the  sight  and  sound 
of  the  cataract  of  human  beings  and  vehicles 
running  so  fiercely  in  the  paved  channels  of 
London.  A  beautiful  poem,  but  how  im- 
measurably sad,  an  invocation  to  the  memory 
and  to  the  spirit  of  Robert  Browning,  not 
speaking  of  him  in  an  elegiac  strain  as  of  a 
great  poet  who  had  lived  his  life  to  the  full 
and  struck  his  clear-toned  harp,  solemnly, 
sweetly,  and  whimsically  too,  year  after 
year;  but  as  of  something  great  and  noble 
wholly  lost  and  separated  from  the  living 
world. 

This  is  a  little  part  of  it : 

Singer  of  hope  for  all  the  world, 
Is  it  still  morning  where  thou  art. 

Or  are  the  clouds  that  hide  thee  furled 
Around  a  dark  and  silent  heart? 

The  sacred  chords  thy  hand  could  wake 
Are  fallen  on  utter  silence  here, 

And  hearts  too  little  even  to  break 
Have  made  an  idol  of  despair. 


198  Hope 

Come  back  to  England,  where  thy  May 
Returns,  but  not  that  rapturous  light; 

God  is  not  in  His  heaven  to-day, 

And  with  thy  country  nought  is  right. 

I  think  that  almost  magically  beautiful! 
But  is  it  true?  I  hope  not  and  I  think  not. 
The  poet  went  on  to  say  that  Paradox  had 
destroyed  the  sanctity  of  Truth,  and  that 
Science  had  done  nothing  more  than  strip 
the  skeleton  of  the  flesh  and  blood  that 
vested  it,  and  crown  the  anatomy  with  glory. 
One  cannot  speak  more  severely,  more  gloom- 
ily, of  an  age  than  to  say  that  it  is  deceived 
by  analysis  and  paradox,  and  cares  nothing 
for  nobler  and  finer  things.  It  seems  to  me 
to  be  a  sorrowful  view  of  life  that,  to  have 
ver>^  little  faith  or  prospect  about  it.  It  is 
true  indeed  that  the  paradox-maker  is  popu- 
lar now;  but  that  is  because  men  are  in- 
terested in  interpretations  of  life;  and  it  is 
true  too  that  we  are  a  little  impatient  now  of 
fancy  and  imagination,  and  want  to  get  at 
facts,  because  we  feel  that  fancy  and  imagi- 
nation, which  are  not  built  on  facts,  are  very 


Pessimism  199 

tricksy  guides  to  life.  But  the  view  seems  to 
me  both  depressed  and  morbid  which  cannot 
look  beyond,  and  see  that  the  world  is  pass- 
ing on  in  its  own  great  unflinching,  steady 
manner.  It  is  like  the  view  of  a  child  who, 
confronted  with  a  pain,  a  disagreeable  inci- 
dent, a  tedious  day  of  drudgery,  wails  that 
it  can  never  be  happy  again. 

The  poem  ends  with  a  fine  apostrophe  to 
Browning  as  one  "who  stormed  through 
death,  and  laid  hold  of  Eternity."  Did  he 
indeed  do  that?  I  wish  I  felt  it!  He  had 
of  course,  an  unconquerable  optimism,  which 
argued  promise  from  failure  and  perfection 
from  incompleteness.  But  I  cannot  take 
such  hopes  on  the  word  of  another,  however 
gallant  and  noble  he  may  be.  I  do  not 
want  hopes  which  are  only  within  the  reach 
of  the  vivid  and  high-hearted;  the  crippled, 
drudging  slave  cannot  rejoice  because  he 
sees  his  warrior-lord  gay,  heroic,  and  strong. 
I  must  build  my  creed  on  my  own  hopes  and 
possibilities,  not  on  the  strength  and  cheer- 
fulness of  another. 


200  Hope 

And  then  my  eye  fell  on  a  sentence  oppo- 
site, out  of  an  article  on  our  social  problems; 
and  this  was  what  I  read: 

"...  the  tears  of  a  hunger-bitten  philo- 
sophy, which  is  so  appalled  by  the  common 
doom  of  man — that  he  must  eat  his  bread 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow — that  it  can  talk, 
write,  and  think  of  nothing  else." 

I  think  there  is  more  promise  in  that,  rough 
and  even  rude  as  the  statement  is,  because 
it  opens  up  a  real  hope  for  something  that 
is  coming,  and  is  not  a  mere  lamentation 
over  a  star  that  is  set. 

"A  hunger-bitten  philosophy" — is  it  not 
rather  that  there  is  creeping  into  the  world 
an  uneasy  sense  that  we  must,  if  we  are  to 
be  happy,  share  our  happiness?  It  is  not 
that  the  philosopher  is  hungry,  it  is  that  he 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  all  the  other  people 
who  arc  condemned  to  hunger;  and  why  it 
occupies  his  tongue  and  his  pen,  is  that  it 
clouds  his  serenity  to  know  that  others 
cannot  now  be  serene.     All  this  unrest,  this 


Tolerance  201 

grasping  at  the  comfort  of  life  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  patience,  the  justice,  the 
tolerance,  with  which  such  claims  are  viewed 
by  many  possessors  on  the  other,  is  because 
there  is  a  spirit  of  sympathy  growing  up, 
which  has  not  yet  become  self-sacrifice,  but 
is  on  its  way  to  become  so. 

Then  we  must  ask  ourselves  what  our 
duty  is.  Not,  I  think,  with  all  our  comforts 
about  us,  to  chant  loud  odes  about  its  being 
all  right  with  the  world,  but  to  see  what  we 
caij  do  to  make  it  all  right,  to  equalise,  to 
share,  to  give. 

The  finest  thing,  of  course,  would  be  if 
those  who  are  set  in  the  midst  of  comfort 
could  come  calmly  out  of  it,  and  live  simpler, 
kinder,  more  direct  lives;  but  apart  from 
that,  what  can  we  do?  Is  it  our  duty,  in 
the  face  of  all  that,  to  surrender  every 
species  of  enjoyment  and  delight,  to  live 
meanly  and  anxiously  because  others  have 
to  live  so?  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it 
would  not  prove  our  greatness  if  the  thought 
of   all    the  helpless   pain   and   drudgery   of 


202  Hope 

the  world,  the  drift  of  falling  tears,  were  so 
intolerable  to  us  that  we  simply  could  not 
endure  the  thought;  but  I  think  that  would 
end  in  quixotism  and  pessimism  of  the  worst 
kind,  if  one  would  not  eat  or  drink  because 
men  starve  in  Russia  or  India,  if  one  would 
not  sleep  because  sufferers  toss  through  the 
night  in  pain.  That  seems  a  morbid  and 
self-sought  suffering. 

No,  I  believe  that  we  must  share  our  joy 
as  far  as  we  can,  and  that  it  is  our  duty 
rather  to  have  joy  to  share,  and  to  guard 
the  quality  of  it,  make  it  pure  and  true. 
We  do  best  if  we  can  so  refine  our  happi- 
ness as  to  make  it  a  thing  which  is  not  de- 
pendent upon  wealth  or  ease;  and  the  more 
natural  our  life  is,  the  more  can  we  be  of  use 
by  the  example  which  is  not  self-conscious 
but  contagious,  by  showing  that  joy  does  not 
depend  upon  excitement  and  stimulus,  but 
upon  vivid  using  of  the  very  stuff  of  life. 

Where  we  fail,  many  of  us,  is  in  the  elabo- 
rateness of  our  pleasures,  in  the  fact  that 
we   learn    to    be    connoisseurs    rather   than 


The  Academy  203 

viveurs,   in  losing  our  taste  for  the  ancient 
wholesome  activities  and  delights. 

I  had  caught  an  hour,  that  very  day,  to 
visit  the  Academy;  it  was  a  doubtful  plea- 
sure, though  if  I  could  have  had  the  great 
rooms  to  myself  it  would  have  been  a  de- 
lightful thing  enough;  but  to  be  crushed 
and  elbowed  by  such  numbers  of  people 
who  seemed  intent  not  on  looking  at  any- 
thing, but  on  trying  to  see  if  they  could 
recognise  any  of  their  friends!  It  was  a 
cujcious  collection  certainly!  So  many  pic- 
tures of  old  disgraceful  men,  whose  faces 
seemed  like  the  faces  of  toads  or  magpies; 
dull,  blinking,  malign,  or  with  the  pert 
brightness  of  acquisition.  There  were  pic- 
tures too  of  human  life  so-called,  silly, 
romantic,  insincerely  posed;  some  fatuous 
allegorical  things,  like  ill-staged  melodra- 
mas; but  the  strength  of  English  art  came 
out  for  all  that  in  the  lovely  landscapes,  rich 
fields,  summer  streams,  far-off  woodlands, 
beating  seas;  and  I  felt  in  looking  at  it  all 
that   the  pictures   which   moved   one   most 


204  Hope 

were  those  which  gave  one  a  sudden  liungcr 
for  the  joy  and  beauty  of  earth,  not  ill- 
imagined  fantastic  places,  but  scenes  that 
one  has  looked  upon  a  hundred  times  with 
love  and  contentment,  the  corn-field,  the 
mill  with  its  brimming  leat,  the  bathing- 
place  among  quiet  pastures,  the  lake  set 
deep  in  water-plants,  the  old  house  in  the 
twilight  garden — all  the  things  consecrated 
throughout  long  ages  by  use  and  life  and 
joy. 

And  then  I  strayed  into  the  sculpture 
gallery;  and  I  cannot  describe  the  thrill 
which  half  a  dozen  of  the  busts  there  gave 
mc — faces  into  which  the  wonder  and  the 
love  and  the  pain  of  life  seemed  to  have 
passed,  and  which  gave  me  a  sudden  sense 
of  that  strange  desire  to  claim  a  share  in  the 
past  and  present  and  future  of  the  form  and 
face  in  which  one  suddenly  saw  so  much 
to  love.  One  seemed  to  feel  hands  held  out ; 
hearts  crying  for  understanding  and  affection, 
breath  on  one's  cheek,  words  in  one's  ears; 
and  thus  the  whole  gallery  melted  into  a 


The  Cry  of  Life  205 

great  throng  of  signalling  and  beckoning 
presences,  the  air  dense  with  the  voices  of 
spirits  calling  to  me,  pressing  upon  me; 
offering  and  claiming  love,  all  bound  upon 
one  mysterious  pilgrimage,  none  able  to 
linger  or  to  stay,  and  yet  willing  to  clasp 
one  close  by  the  roadside,  m  wonder  at  the 
marvellous  inscrutable  power  behind  it  all, 
which  at  the  same  moment  seemed  to  say, 
"Rest  here,  love,  be  loved,  enjoy,"  and  at 
the  same  moment  cried,  "Go  forward,  ex- 
perience, endure,  lament,  come  to  an  end." 
There  again  opened  before  one  the  awful 
mystery  of  the  beauty  and  the  grief  of  life, 
the  double  strain  which  we  must  somehow 
learn  to  combine,  the  craving  for  continuance, 
side  by  side  with  the  knowledge  of  inter- 
ruption and  silence.  If  one  is  real,  the  other 
cannot  be  real!  And  I  for  one  have  no 
doubt  of  which  reality  I  hold  to.  Death  and 
silence  may  deceive  us;  life  and  joy  cannot. 
There  may  be  something  hidden  beneath  the 
seeming  termination  of  mortal  experience; 
indeed,  I  fully  believe  that  there  is;  but  even 


2o6  Hope 

if  it  were  not  so,  nothing  could  make  love 
and  joy  unreal,  or  destroy  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  says  within  us,  "This  is  I." 
Our  one  hope  then  is  not  to  be  deceived  or 
beguiled  or  bewildered  by  the  complexity 
and  intricacy  of  life;  the  path  of  each  of  us 
lies  clear  and  direct  through  the  tangle. 

And  thus,  as  I  have  said,  our  task  is  not 
to  be  defrauded  of  our  interior  peace.  No 
power  that  we  know  can  do  more  than  dis- 
solve and  transmute  our  mortal  frame;  it 
can  melt  into  the  earth,  it  can  be  carried  into 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  but  it  cannot  be  anni- 
hilated; and  this  is  infinitely  more  true 
of  our  spirits;  they  may  undergo  a  thousand 
transformations  and  transmutations,  but 
they  must  be  eternally  there. 

So  let  us  claim  our  experience  bravely 
and  accept  it  firmly,  never  daunted  by  it, 
never  utterly  despairing,  leaping  back  into 
life  and  happiness  as  swiftly  as  we  can, 
never  doubting  that  it  is  assured  to  us. 
The  time  that  we  waste  is  that  which  is 
spent  in  anxious,  trivial,  conventional  things. 


The  Virtue  of  For<atfulness  207 


We  have  to  bear  them  in  our  burdens,  many 
of  us,  but  do  not  let  us  be  for  ever  examining 
them,  weighing  them  in  our  hands,  wishing 
them  away,  whining  over  them;  we  must 
not  let  them  beguile  us  of  the  better  part. 
If  the  despairing  part  of  us  cries  out  that 
it  is  frightened,  wearied,  anxious,  we  must 
not  heed  it ;  we  must  again  and  again  assure 
ourselves  that  the  peace  is  there,  and  that 
we  miss  it  by  our  own  fault.  Above  all  let 
us  not  make  pitiable  excuses  for  ourselves. 
We  must  be  like  the  woman  in  the  parable 
who,  when  she  lost  the  coin,  did  not  sit 
down  to  bewail  her  ill-luck,  but  swept  the 
house  diligently  until  she  found  it.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  loss  in  the  world;  what 
we  lose  is  merely  withheld  until  we  have 
earned  the  right  to  find  it  again.  We  must 
not  cultivate  repentance,  we  must  not  yield 
to  remorse.  The  only  thing  worth  having 
is  a  wholesome  sorrow  for  not  having  done 
better;  but  it  is  ignoble  to  remember,  if  our 
remembrance  has  anything  hopeless  about 
it;  and  we   do  best   utterly  to  forget  our 


2o8  Hope 

failures  and  lapses,  because  of  this  we  may 
be  wholly  sure,  that  joys  are  restored  to 
us,  that  strength  returns,  and  that  peace 
beyond  measure  is  waiting  for  us;  and  not 
only  waiting  for  us,  but  as  near  us  as  a 
closed  door  in  the  room  in  which  we  sit. 
We  can  rise  up,  we  can  turn  thither,  we  can 
enter  if  we  will  and  when  we  will. 


I 


XXII 

EXPERIENCE 

It  is  very  strange  to  contemplate  the  steady 
plunge  of  good  advice,  like  a  cataract  of  ice- 
cold  water,  into  the  brimming  and  dancing 
pool  of  youth  and  life,  the  maxims  of  moral- 
ists and  sages,  the  epigrams  of  cynics,  the 
sermons  of  priests,  the  good-humoured  warn- 
ings of  sensible  men,  all  crying  out  that 
nothing  is  really  worth  the  winning,  that 
fame  brings  weariness  and  anxiety,  that  love 
is  a  fitful  fever,  that  wealth  is  a  heavy  burden, 
that  ambition  is  a  hectic  dream;  to  all  of 
which  ejaculations  youth  does  not  listen 
and  cannot  listen,  but  just  goes  on  its  eager 
way,  trying  its  own  experiments,  believing 
in  the  delight  of  triumph  and  success,  deter- 
mined, at  all  events,  to  test  all  for  itself. 
All  this  confession  of  disillusionment  and 
14  209 


210  Experience 

disappointment  is  true,  but  only  partially 
true.  The  struggle,  the  effort,  the  per- 
severance, does  bring  fine  things  with  it  — 
things  finer  by  far  than  the  shining  crown  and 
the  loud  trumpets  that  attend  it. 

The  explanation  of  it  seems  to  be  that 
men  require  to  be  tempted  to  effort,  by  the 
dream  of  fame  and  wealth  and  leisure  and 
imagined  satisfaction.  It  is^  the  experience 
that  we  need,  though  we  do  not  know  it; 
and  experience,  by  itself,  seems  such  a  te- 
dious, dowdy,  tattered  thing,  like  a  flag 
burnt  by  the  sun,  bedraggled  by  rain,  torn 
by  the  onset,  that  it  cannot  by  itself  prove 
attractive.  Men  are  heavily  preoccupied 
with  ends  and  aims,  and  the  recognised 
values  of  the  objects  of  desire  and  hope  are 
often  false  and  distorted  values.  So  singu- 
larly constituted  are  we,  that  the  hope  of 
idleness  is  alluring,  and  some  people  are 
early  deceived  into  habits  of  idleness,  be- 
cause they  cannot  know  what  it  is  that 
lies  on  the  further  side  of  work.  Of  course 
the  bodily  life  has  to  be  supplied,  but  when 


Effort  211 

a  man  has  all  that  he  needs — let  us  say  food 
and  drink,  a  quiet  shelter,  a  garden  and  a 
row  of  trees,  a  grassy  meadow  with  a  flow- 
ing stream,  a  congenial  task,  a  household 
of  his  own — it  seems  not  enough!  Let 
us  suppose  all  that  granted  to  a  man:  he 
must  consider  next  what  kind  of  life  he 
has  gained;  he  has  the  cup  in  his  hands; 
with  what  liquor  is  it  to  be  filled?  That 
is  the  point  at  which  the  imagination  of 
man  seems  to  fail ;  he  cannot  set  himself  to 
vigorous,  wholesome  life  for  its  own  sake. 
He  has  to  be  ever  looking  past  it  and 
beyond  it  for  something  to  yield  him  an 
added  joy. 

Now,  what  we  all  have  to  do,  if  we  can, 
is  to  regard  life  steadily  and  generously,  to 
see  that  life,  experience,  emotion,  are  the 
real  gifts;  not  things  to  be  hurried  through, 
thrust  aside,  disregarded,  as  a  man  makes  a 
hasty  meal  before  some  occasion  that  excites 
him.  One  must  not  use  life  like  the  Passover 
feast,  to  be  eaten  with  loins  girded  and  staff 
in  hand.     It  is  there  to  be  lived,  and  what 


212  Experience 

we  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  quaUty  of  it 
as  fine  as  we  can. 

We  must  provide  then,  if  we  can,  a  certain 
setting  for  Hfe,  a  sufficiency  of  work  and 
sustenance,  and  even  leisure;  and  then  we 
must  give  that  no  further  thought.  How 
many  men  do  I  not  know,  whose  thought 
seems  to  be  "when  I  have  made  enough 
money,  when  I  have  found  my  place,  when 
I  have  arranged  the  apparatus  of  life  about 
me,  then  I  will  live  as  I  should  wish  to  live. " 
But  the  stream  of  desires  broadens  and 
thickens,  and  the  leisure  hour  never  comes! 

We  must  not  thus  deceive  ourselves. 
What  we  have  to  do  is  to  make  life,  instantly 
and  without  delay,  worthy  to  be  lived.  We 
must  try  to  enjoy  all  that  we  have  to  do, 
and  take  care  that  we  do  not  do  what  we 
do  not  enjoy,  unless  the  hard  task  we  set 
ourselves  is  sure  to  bring  us  something  that 
we  really  need.  It  is  useless  thus  to  elabo- 
rate the  cup  of  life,  if  we  find,  when  we 
have  made  it,  that  the  wine  which  should 
have  filled  it  has  long  ago  evaporated. 


The  Wine  of  Life  213 

Can  I  say  what  I  believe  the  wine  of  Ufe 
to  be?  I  believe  that  it  is  a  certain  energy 
and  richness  of  spirit,  in  which  both  mind 
and  heart  find  full  expression.  We  ought 
to  rise  day  by  day  with  a  certain  zest,  a  clear 
intention,  a  design  to  make  the  most  out 
of  every  hour;  not  to  let  the  busy  hours 
shoulder  each  other,  tread  on  each  other's 
heels,  but  to  force  every  action  to  give  up 
its  strength  and  sweetness.  There  is  work 
to  be  done,  and  there  are  empty  hours  to  be 
filled  as  well.  It  is  happiest  of  all,  for  man 
an^  woman,  if  those  hours  can  be  filled,  not 
as  a  duty  but  as  a  pleasure,  by  pleasing 
those  whom  we  love  and  whose  nearness  is 
at  once  a  delight.  We  ought  to  make  time 
for  that  most  of  all.  And  then  there  ought 
to  be  some  occupation,  not  enforced,  to  which 
we  naturally  wish  to  return.  Exercise,  gar- 
dening, handicraft,  writing,  even  if  it  be  only 
leisurely  letters,  music,  reading — something 
to  occupy  the  restless  brain  and  hand;  for 
there  is  no  doubt  that  both  physically  and 
mentally  we  are  not  fit  to  be  unoccupied. 


214  Experience 

But  most  of  all,  there  must  be  something 
to  quicken,  enliven,  practise  the  soul.  We 
must  not  force  this  upon  ourselves,  or  it  will 
be  fruitless  and  dreary;  but  neither  must  we 
let  it  lapse  out  of  mere  indolence.  We  must 
follow  some  law  of  beauty,  in  whatever  way 
beauty  appeals  to  us  and  calls  us.  We  must 
not  think  that  appeal  a  selfish  thing,  be- 
cause it  is  upon  that  and  that  alone  that  our 
power  of  increasing  peace  and  hope  and  vital 
energy  belongs. 

I  have  a  man  in  mind  who  has  a  simple 
taste  for  books.  He  has  a  singularly  pure 
and  fine  power  of  selecting  and  loving  what 
is  best  in  books.  There  is  no  self-con- 
sciousness about  him,  no  critical  contempt 
of  the  fancies  of  others;  but  his  own  love 
for  what  is  beautiful  is  so  modest,  so  per- 
fectly natural  and  unaffected,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  hear  him  speak  of  the  things 
that  he  loves  without  a  desire  rising  up  in 
one's  mind  to  taste  a  pleasure  which  brings 
so  much  happiness  to  the  owner.  I  have 
often  talked  with  him  about  books  that  I  had 


The  Vivid  Mind  215 

thought  tiresome  and  dull;  but  he  dis- 
entangles so  deftly  the  underlying  idea  of 
the  book,  the  thought  that  one  must  be  on 
the  look-out  for  the  motive  of  the  whole, 
that  he  has  again  and  again  sent  me  back 
to  a  book  which  I  had  thrown  aside,  with  an 
added  interest  and  perception.  But  the 
really  notable  thing  is  the  effect  on  his  own 
immediate  circle.  I  do  not  think  his  family 
are  naturally  people  of  very  high  intelligence 
or  ability.  But  his  mind  and  heart  seem  to 
have  permeated  theirs,  so  that  I  know  no 
group  of  persons  who  seem  to  have  imbibed 
so  simply,  without  strain  or  effort,  a  delight 
in  what  is  good  and  profound.  There  is  no 
sort  of  dryness  about  the  atmosphere.  It  is 
not  that  they  keep  talk  resolutely  on  their 
own  subjects;  it  is  merely  that  their  outlook 
is  so  fresh  and  quick  that  everything  seems 
alive  and  significant.  One  comes  away  from 
the  house  with  a  horizon  strangely  extended, 
and  a  sense  that  the  world  is  full  of  live 
ideas  and  wonderful  affairs. 

I  despair  of  describing  an  effect  so  subtle, 


2i6  Experience 

so  contagious.  It  is  not  in  the  least  that 
everything  becomes  intellectual;  that  would 
be  a  rueful  consequence;  there  is  no  parade 
of  knowledge,  but  knowledge  itself  be- 
comes an  exciting  and  entertaining  thing, 
like  a  varied  landscape.  The  wonder  is, 
when  one  is  with  these  people,  that  one  did 
not  see  all  the  fine  things  that  were  staring 
one  in  the  face  all  the  time,  the  clues,  the  con- 
nections, the  links.  The  best  of  it  is  that  it 
is  not  a  transient  effect;  it  is  rather  like  the 
implanting  of  a  seed  of  fire,  which  spreads 
and  glows,  and  bums  unaided. 

It  is  this  sacred  fire  of  which  we  ought  all 
to  be  in  search.  Fire  is  surely  the  most 
wonderful  symbol  in  the  world!  We  sit  in 
our  quiet  rooms,  feeling  safe,  serene,  even 
chilly,  yet  everywhere  about  us,  peacefully 
confined  in  all  our  furniture  and  belongings, 
is  a  mass  of  inflammability,  stored  with 
gases,  which  at  a  touch  are  capable  of  leap- 
ing into  flame.  I  remember  once  being  in  a 
house  in  which  a  pile  of  wood  in  a  cellar 
had   caught   fire;   there   was   a   short   delay 


Flame  217 

while  the  hose  was  got  out,  and  before  an 
aperture  into  the  burning  room  could  be 
made.  I  went  into  a  peaceful  dining-room, 
which  was  just  above  the  fire,  and  it  was 
strangely  appalling  to  see  little  puffs  of 
smoke  fly  off  from  the  kindled  floor,  while 
we  tore  the  carpets  up  and  flew  to  take  the 
pictures  down,  and  to  know  the  room  was 
all  crammed  with  vehement  cells,  ready  to 
burst  into  vapour  at  the  fierce  touch  of  the 
consuming  element. 

I  saw  once  a  vast  bonfire  of  wood  kindled 
on  a  grassy  hill-top;  it  was  curiously  affect- 
ing to  see  the  great  trunks  melt  into  flame, 
and  the  red  cataract  pouring  so  softly,  so 
unapproachably  into  the  air.  It  is  so  with 
the  minds  of  men;  the  material  is  all  there, 
compressed,  welded,  inflammable;  and  if 
the  fire  can  but  leap  into  our  spirits  from 
some  other  burning  heart,  we  may  be  amazed 
at  the  prodigal  force  and  heat  that  can  burst 
forth,  the  silent  energ>',  the  possibility  of 
consumption. 

I  hold  it  to  be  of  supreme  value  to  each  of 


2i8  Experience 

us  to  try  to  introduce  this  fire  of  the  heart 
into  our  spirits.  It  is  not  like  mortal  fire,  a 
consuming,  dangerous,  truculent  element. 
It  is  rather  like  the  furnace  of  the  engine, 
which  can  convert  water  into  steam — the 
softest,  feeblest,  purest  element  into  irre- 
sistible and  irrepressible  force.  The  mate- 
rials are  all  at  hand  in  many  a  spirit  that  has 
never  felt  the  glowing  contact?;  and  it  is  our 
business  first  to  see  that  the  elements  are 
there,  and  then  to  receive  with  awe  the  fiery 
touch.  It  must  be  restrained,  controlled, 
guarded,  that  fierce  conflagration;  but  our 
joy  cannot  only  consist  of  pure,  clear,  lam- 
bent, quiescent  elements.  It  must  have 
a  heart  of  flame. 


4 


XXIII 


FAITH 


We  ought  to  learn  to  cultivate,  train,  regu- 
late emotion,  just  as  we  train  other  faculties. 
The  world  has  hardly  reached  this  point 
yet.  First  man  trains  his  body  that  he  may 
be  strong,  when  strength  is  supreme.  When 
almost  the  only  argument  is  force,  the  man 
who  is  drawn  to  play  a  fine  part  in  the  world 
must  above  everything  be  strong,  courageous, 
gallant,  so  that  he  may  go  to  combat  joyful 
and  serene,  like  a  man  inspired.  Then 
when  the  world  becomes  civilised,  when 
weakness  combines  against  strength,  when 
men  do  not  settle  differences  of  feeling  by 
combat  and  war,  but  by  peaceable  devices 
like  votes  and  arbitrations,  the  intellect 
comes  to  the  front,  and  strength  of  body 

falls    into    the    background    as    a    pleasant 

219 


220  Faith 

enough  thing,  a  matter  of  amusement  or 
health,  and  intellect  becomes  the  dominant 
force.  But  we  shall  advance  beyond  even 
that,  and  indeed  we  have  begun  to  advance. 
Buddhism  and  the  Stoic  philosophy  were 
movements  dictated  more  by  reason  than  by 
emotion,  which  recognised  the  elements  of 
pain  and  sorrow  as  inseparable  from  human 
life,  and  suggested  to  man  that  the  only 
way  to  conquer  evils  such  as  these  was  by 
turning  the  back  upon  them,  cultivating 
indifference  to  them,  and  repressing  the 
desires  which  issued  in  disappointment. 
Christianity  was  the  first  attempt  of  the 
human  spirit  to  achieve  a  nobler  conquest 
still;  it  taught  men  to  abandon  the  idea  of 
conquest  altogether;  the  Christian  was  meant 
to  abjure  ambition,  not  to  resist  oppression, 
not  to  meet  violence  by  violence,  but  to 
yield  rather  than  to  fight. 

The  metaphor  of  the  Christian  soldier 
is  wholly  alien  to  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel, 
and  the  attempt  to  establish  a  combative 
ideal  of  Christian  life  was  one  of  the  many 


The  Christian  221 

concessions  that  Christianity  in  the  hands 
of  its  later  exponents  made  to  the  instincts 
of  men.  The  conception  of  the  Christian 
in  the  Gospel  was  that  of  a  simple,  uncom- 
plicated, uncalculating  being,  who  was  to 
be  so  absorbed  in  caring  for  others  that  the 
sense  of  his  own  rights  and  desires  and  aims 
was  to  fall  wholly  into  the  background. 
He'  is  not  represented  as  meant  to  have 
any  intellectual,  political,  or  artistic  pur- 
suits at  all.  He  is  to  accept  his  place  in 
the  world  as  he  finds  it;  he  is  to  have  no 
use  for  money  or  comforts  or  accumulated 
resources.  He  is  not  to  scheme  for  dignity 
or  influence,  nor  even  much  to  regard  earthly 
ties.  Sorrow,  loss,  pain,  evil,  are  simply  to 
be  as  shadows  through  which  he  passes,  and 
if  they  have  any  meaning  at  all  for  him,  they 
are  to  be  opportunities  for  testing  the 
strength  of  his  emotions.  But  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  Christian  revelation  is  that  no  terms 
should  be  made  with  the  world  at  all.  The 
world  must  treat  the  Christian  as  it  will,  and 
there  are  to  be  no  reprisals;  neither  is  there 


222  Faith 

the  least  touch  of  opportunism  about  it.  The 
Christian  is  not  to  do  the  best  he  can,  but 
the  best ;  he  is  frankly  to  aim  at  perfection. 

How  then  is  this  faith  to  be  sustained? 
It  is  to  be  nourished  by  a  sense  of  direct 
and  frank  converse  with  a  God  and  Father. 
The  Christian  is  never  to  have  any  doubt 
that  the  intention  of  the  Father  towards  him 
is  absolutely  kind  and  good. »  He  attempts 
no  explanation  of  the  existence  of  sin  and 
pain;  he  simply  endures  them;  and  he  looks 
forward  with  serene  certainty  to  the  con- 
tinued existence  of  the  soul.  There  is 
no  hint  given  of  the  conditions  under  which 
the  soul  is  to  continue  its  further  life,  of 
its  desires  or  occupations;  the  intention 
obviously  is  that  a  Christian  should  live  life 
freely  and  fully;  but  love,  and  interest  in 
human  relations  are  to  supersede  all  other 
aims  and  desires. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  if  the  world 
were  to  accept  the  teaching  of  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount  literally,  the  social  fabric  of 
the  world  would  be  dissolved  in  a  month. 


The  Social  Fabric  223 

It  is  true;  but  it  is  not  generally  added  that 
it  would  be  because  there  would  be  no  need 
of  the  social  fabric.  The  reason  why  the 
social  fabric  would  be  dissolved  is  because 
there  would  doubtless  be  a  minority  which 
would  not  accept  these  principles,  and  would 
seize  upon  the  things  which  the  worid  agrees 
to  consider  desirable.  The  Christian  ma- 
jority would  become  the  slaves  of  the  un- 
christian minority,  and  would  be  at  their 
mercy.  Christianity,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a 
social  system  at  all,  is  the  purest  kind  of 
socialism,  a  socialism  not  of  compulsion  but 
of  disinterestedness.  It  is  easy,  of  course,  to 
scoff  at  the  possibility  of  so  far  disintegrating 
the  vast  and  complex  organisation  of  society 
as  to  arrange  life  on  the  simpler  lines;  but 
the  fact  remains  that  the  very  few  people  in 
the  world's  history,  like  St.  Francis  of  Assisi, 
for  instance,  who  have  ever  dared  to  live 
literally  in  the  Christian  manner,  have  had 
an  immeasurable  effect  upon  the  hearts  and 
imaginations  of  the  world.  The  truth  is  not 
that  life  cannot  be  so  lived,  but  that  human- 


224  Faith 

ity  dares  not  take  the  plunge;  and  that  is 
what  Christ  meant  when  He  said  that  few 
would  find  the  narrow  way.  The  really 
amazing  thing  is  that  such  immense  numbers 
of  people  have  accepted  Christianity  in  the 
world,  and  profess  themselves  Christians 
without  the  slightest  doubt  of  their  sincerity, 
who  never  regard  the  Christian  principles  at 
all.  The  chief  aim,  it  woul(^  seem,  of  the 
Church,  has  been  not  to  preserve  the  original 
revelation,  but  to  accommodate  it  to  human 
instincts  and  desires.  It  seems  to  me  to 
resemble  the  very  quaint  and  simple  old 
Breton  legend,  which  relates  how  the  Saviour 
sent  the  Apostles  out  to  sell  stale  fish  as  fresh ; 
and  when  they  returned  unsuccessful,  He  was 
angry  with  them,  and  said,  "How  shall  I 
make  you  into  fishers  of  men,  if  you  cannot 
even  persuade  simple  people  to  buy  stale 
fish  for  fresh?"  That  is  a  very  trenchant 
little  allegory  of  ecclesiastical  methods !  And 
perhaps  it  is  even  so  that  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  Christianity  is  in  a  sense  a  failure, 
or  rather  an  unfulfilled  hope,  because  it  has 


Christianity  225 

made  terms  with  the  world,  has  become 
pompous  and  respectable  and  mundane 
and  influential  and  combative,  and  has  de- 
liberately exalted  civic  duty  above  love. 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  the  business  of 
all  serious  Christians  deliberately  to  face 
this  fact ;  and  equally  it  is  not  their  business 
to  try  to  destroy  the  social  organisation  of 
what  is  miscalled  Christianity.  That  is  as 
much  a  part  of  the  world  now  as  the  Roman 
Empire  was  a  part  of  the  world  when  Christ 
came ;  but  we  must  not  mistake  it  for  Christ- 
ianity. Christianity  is  not  a  doctrine,  or  an 
organisation,  or  a  ceremonial,  or  a  society, 
but  an  atmosphere  and  a  life.  The  essence 
of  it  is  to  train  emotion,  to  believe  and  to 
practise  the  belief  that  all  human  beings  have 
in  them  something  interesting,  lovable,  beau- 
tiful, pathetic;  and  to  make  the  recognition 
of  that  fact,  the  establishment  of  simple  and 
kind  relations  with  every  single  person  with 
whom  one  is  brought  into  contact,  the  one 
engrossing  aim  of  life.  Thus  the  essence  of 
Christianity  is  in  a  sense  artistic,  because  it 


226  Faith 

depends  upon  freely  recognising  the  beauty 
both  of  the  natural  world  and  the  human 
spirit.  There  are  enough  hints  of  this  in  the 
Gospel,  in  the  tender  observation  of  Christ, 
His  love  of  flowers,  birds,  children,  the  fact 
that  He  noted  and  reproduced  in  His  stories 
the  beauty  of  the  homely  business  of  life,  the 
processes  of  husbandry  in  field  and  vine- 
yard, the  care  of  the  sheepfold,  the  move- 
ment of  the  street,  the  games  of  boys  and 
girls,  the  Httle  festivals  of  life,  the  wedding 
and  the  party;  all  these  things  appear  in 
His  talk,  and  if  more  of  it  were  recorded 
there  would  undoubtedly  be  more  of  such 
things.  It  is  true  that  as  opposition  and 
strife  gathered  about  Him,  there  falls  a 
darker  and  sadder  spirit  upon  the  page, 
and  the  anxieties  and  ambitions  of  His  fol- 
lowers reflect  themselves  in  the  record  of 
denunciations  and  censures.  But  we  must 
not  be  misled  by  this  into  thinking  that  the 
message  is  thus  obscured. 

What  then  we  have  to  do,  if  we  would 
follow  the  pure  Gospel,  is  to  lead  quiet  lives, 


Christian   Light-Heartedness  22-] 

refresh  the  spirit  of  joy  within  us  by  feeding 
our  eyes  and  minds  with  the  beautiful  sounds 
and  sights  of  nature,  the  birds'  song,  the 
opening  faces  of  flowers,  the  spring  woods, 
the  winter  sunset ;  we  must  enter  simply  and 
freely  into  the  life  about  us,  not  seeking 
to  take  a  lead,  to  impress  our  views,  to 
emphasise  our  own  subjects;  we  must  not 
get  absorbed  in  toil  or  business,  and  still 
less  in  plans  and  intrigues;  we  must  not 
protest  against  these  things,  but  simply  not 
care  for  them;  we  must  not  be  burdensome 
to  others  in  any  way ;  we  must  not  be  shocked 
or  offended  or  disgusted,  but  tolerate,  for- 
give, welcome,  share.  We  must  treat  life 
in  an  eager,  light-hearted  way,  not  rue- 
fully or  drearily  or  solemnly.  The  old 
language  in  which  the  Gospel  comes  to  us, 
the  formality  of  the  antique  phrasing,  the 
natural  tendency  to  make  it  dignified  and 
hieratic,  disguise  from  us  how  utterly  natural 
and  simple  it  all  is.  I  do  not  think  that 
reverence  and  tradition  and  awe  have  done 
us  any  more  grievous  injury  than  the  fact 


228  Faith 

that  we  have  made  the  Saviour  into  a  figure 
with  whom  frank  communication,  eager,  im- 
pulsive talk,  would  seem  to  be  impossible. 
One  thinks  of  Him,  from  pictures  and  from 
books,  as  grave,  abstracted,  chiding,  pre- 
cise, mournfully  kind,  solemnly  considerate. 
I  believe  it  in  my  heart  to  have  been  wholly 
otherwise,  and  I  think  of  Him  as  one  with 
whom  any  simple  and  affectionate  person, 
man,  woman,  or  child,  would  have  been 
entirely  and  instantly  at  ease.  Like  all 
idealistic  and  poetical  natures,  he  had  little 
use,  I  think,  for  laughter;  those  who  are 
deeply  interested  in  life  and  its  issues  care 
more  for  the  beauty  than  the  humour  of  life. 
But  one  sees  a  flash  of  humour  here  and 
there,  as  in  the  story  of  the  unjust  judge 
and  of  the  children  in  the  market-place;  and 
that  He  was  disconcerting  or  cast  a  shadow 
upon  natural  talk  and  merriment  I  do  not 
for  an  instant  believe. 

And  thus  I  think  that  the  Christian  has 
no  right  to  be  ashamed  of  light-heartedness; 
indeed  I  believe  that  he  ought  to  cultivate 


Christian  Light-I  Icartcdncss  229 

and  feed  it  in  every  possible  way.  He  ought 
to  be  so  unafTected,  that  he  can  change  with- 
out the  least  incongruity  from  laughter  to 
tears,  sympathising  with,  entering  into,  de- 
veloping the  moods  of  those  about  him.  The 
moment  that  the  Christian  feels  himself  to 
be  out  of  place  and  affronted  by  scenes  of 
common  resort — the  market,  the  bar,  the 
smoking-room — that  moment  his  love  of 
humanity  fails  him.  He  must  be  charming, 
attractive,  genial,  everywhere;  for  the  sever- 
ance of  goodness  and  charm  is  a  most  wretched 
matter;  if  he  affects  his  company  at  all,  it 
must  be  as  innocent  and  beautiful  girlhood 
affects  a  circle,  by  its  guilelessness,  its  sweet- 
ness, its  appeal.  I  have  known  Christians 
like  this,  wise,  beloved,  simple,  gentle  people, 
whose  presence  did  not  bring  constraint  but 
rather  a  perfect  ease,  and  was  an  evocation 
of  all  that  was  best  and  finest  in  those  near 
them.  I  am  not  recommending  a  kind  of 
silly  mildness,  interested  only  in  improving 
conversation,  but  rather  a  zest,  a  shrewdness, 
a    bonhomie,    not    finding    natural    interests 


2\o  Faith 


■vV 


common  and  unclean,  but  passionately  de- 
voted to  human  nature — so  impulsive,  frail, 
unequal,  irritable,  pleasure-loving,  but  yet 
with  that  generous,  sweet,  wholesome  fibre 
below,  that  seems  to  be  evoked  in  crisis  and 
trial  from  the  most  apparently  worthless 
human  beings.  The  outcasts  of  society,  the 
sinful,  the  ill-regulated,  would  never  have  so 
congregated  about  our  Savioilr  if  they  had 
felt  Him  to  be  shocked  or  indignant  at  sin. 
What  they  must  rather  have  felt  was  that 
He  understood  them,  loved  them,  desired 
their  love,  and  drew  out  all  the  true  and  fine 
and  eager  and  lovable  part  of  them,  because 
he  knew  it  to  be  there,  wished  it  to  emerge. 
"He  was  such  a  comfortable  person!"  as  a 
simple  man  once  said  to  me  of  one  of  the  best 
of  Christians:  "  If  you  had  gone  wrong,  he  did 
not  find  fault,  but  tried  to  see  the  way  out; 
and  if  you  were  in  pain  or  trouble,  he  said 
ver}'  little;  you  only  felt  it  was  all  right 
when  he  was  by." 


XXIV 

PROGRESS 

We  must  always  hopefully  and  gladly 
remember  that  the  great  movements,  doc- 
trines, thoughts,  which  have  affected  the  life 
of  the  world  most  deeply,  are  those  which 
are  most  truly  based  upon  the  best  and 
truest  needs  of  humanity.  We  need  never 
be  afraid  of  a  new  theory  or  a  new  doctrine 
because  such  things  are  never  imposed  upon 
an  unwilling  world,  but  owe  their  strength 
to  the  closeness  with  which  they  interpret 
the  aims  and  wants  of  human  beings.  Still 
more  hopeful  is  the  knowledge  which  one 
gains  from  looking  back  at  the  history  of 
the  world,  that  no  selfish,  cruel,  sensual,  or 
wicked  interpretation  of  life  has  ever  estab- 
lished a  vital  hold  upon  men.  The  selfish 
and   the   cruel   elements  of  humanity   have 

231 


2Ty2  Progress 

never  been  able  to  band  themselves  to- 
gether against  the  power  of  good  for  very 
long,  for  the  simple  reason  that  those  who 
are  selfish  and  evil  have  a  natural  suspicion 
of  other  selfish  and  evil  people;  and  no 
combination  of  men  can  ever  be  based  upon 
anything  but  mutual  trust  and  affection. 
And  thus  good  has  always  a  power  of  com- 
bination, while  evil  is  naturally  solitary  and 
disjunctive. 

Take  such  an  attempt  as  that  of  Nietzsche 
to  establish  a  new  theory  of  life.  His  theory 
of  the  superman  is  simply  this,  that  the  future 
of  the  world  is  in  the  hands  of  strong,  com- 
bative, powerful,  predatory  people.  Those 
are  the  supermen,  a  natural  aristocracy 
of  force  and  unscrupulousness  and  vigour. 
But  such  individuals  carry  with  them  the 
seed  of  their  own  failure,  because  even  if 
Nietzsche's  view  that  the  weak  and  broken 
elements  of  humanity  were  doomed  to  perish, 
and  ought  even  to  be  helped  to  perish,  were 
a  true  view,  even  if  his  supermen  at  last 
survived,  they  must  ultimately  be  matched 


Force  of  Christianity  233 

one  against  another  in  some  monstrous  and 
unflinching  combat. 

Nietzsche  held  that  the  Christian  doctrine 
of  renunciation  was  but  a  translating  into 
terms  of  a  theory  the  discontent,  the  dis- 
appointment, the  failure  of  the  weak  and 
diseased  element  of  humanity,  the  slavish 
herd.  He  thought  that  Christianity  was  a 
glorification,  a  consecration  of  man's  weak- 
ness and  not  of  his  strength.  But  he  mis- 
judged it  wholly.  It  is  based  in  reality  upon 
the  noble  element  in  humanity,  the  power 
of  love  and  trust  and  unselfishness  which 
rises  superior  to  the  ills  of  life;  and  the  force 
of  Christianity  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  reveals 
to  men  the  greatness  of  which  they  are 
capable,  and  the  fact  that  no  squalor  or 
wretchedness  of  circumstances  can  bind 
the  thought  of  man,  if  it  is  set  upon  what  is 
high  and  pure.  The  man  or  woman  who 
sees  the  beauty  of  inner  purity  cannot  ever 
be  very  deeply  tainted  by  corruption  either 
of  body  or  of  soul. 

Renunciation    is    not    a    wholly    passive 


234  Progress 

thing;  it  is  not  a  mere  suspicion  of  all  that  is 
joyful,  a  dull  abnegation  of  happiness.  It  is 
not  that  self-sacrifice  means  a  frame  of 
mind  too  despondent  to  enjoy,  so  fearful  of 
every  kind  of  pleasure  that  it  has  not  the 
heart  to  take  part  in  it.  It  is  rather  a 
vigorous  discrimination  between  pleasure 
and  joy,  an  austerity  which  is  not  deceived 
by  selfish,  obvious,  apparent  pleasure,  but 
sees  what  sort  of  pleasure  is  innocent, 
natural,  social,  and  what  sort  of  pleasure  is 
corroding,  barren,  and  unreal. 

In  the  Christianity  of  the  Gospel  there  is 
very  little  trace  of  asceticism.  The  delight 
in  life  is  clearly  indicated,  and  the  only  sort 
of  self-denial  that  is  taught  is  the  self-denial 
that  ends  in  simplicity  of  life,  and  in  the 
joyful  and  courageous  shouldering  of  in- 
evitable burdens.  Self-denial  was  not  to  be 
practised  in  a  spiritless  and  timid  way,  but 
rather  as  a  man  accepts  the  fatigues  and 
dangers  of  an  expedition,  in  a  vigorous  and 
adventurous  mood.  One  does  not  think  of 
the  men  who  go  on  some  Arctic  exploration, 


Self-Restrain  t  235 

with  all  the  restrictions  of  diet  that  they 
have  to  practise,  all  the  uncomfortable  rules 
of  life  they  have  to  obey,  as  renouncing  the 
joys  of  life;  they  do  so  naturally,  in  order 
that  they  may  follow  a  livelier  inspiration. 
It  is  clear  from  the  accounts  of  primitive 
Christians  that  they  impressed  their  heathen 
neighbours  not  as  timid,  anxious,  and  de- 
spondent people,  but  as  men  and  women 
with  some  secret  overflowing  sense  of  joy 
and  energy,  and  with  a  curious  radiance 
and  brightness  about  them  which  was  not 
an  affected  pose,  but  the  redundant  hap- 
piness of  those  who  have  some  glad  know- 
ledge in  heart  and  mind  which  they  cannot 
repress. 

Let  us  suppose  the  case  of  a  man  gifted 
by  nature  with  a  great  vitality,  with  a  keen 
perception  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  life,  all 
that  is  humorous,  all  that  is  delightful. 
Imagine  him  extremely  sensitive  to  nature, 
art,  human  charm,  human  pleasure,  doing 
everything  with  zest,  interest,  amusement, 
excitement.     Imagine  him,  too,  deeply  sen- 


236  Progress 

sitive  to  affection,  loving  to  be  loved,  grate- 
ful, kindly,  fond  of  children  and  animals,  a 
fervent  lover,  a  romantic  friend,  alive  to  all 
fine  human  qualities.  Suppose,  too,  that  he 
is  ambitious,  desirous  of  fame,  liking  to  play 
an  active  part  in  life,  fond  of  work,  wishing 
to  sway  opinion,  eager  that  others  should 
care  for  the  things  for  which  he  cares.  Well, 
he  must  make  a  certain  choice,  «o  doubt ;  he 
cannot  gratify  all  these  things;  his  ambi- 
tion may  get  in  the  way  of  his  pleasure, 
his  affections  may  interrupt  his  ambitions. 
What  is  his  renunciation  to  be?  It  obvious- 
ly will  not  be  an  abnegation  of  everything. 
He  will  not  feel  himself  bound  to  crush  all 
enjoyment,  to  refuse  to  love  and  be  loved, 
to  enter  tamely  and  passively  into  life.  He 
will  inevitably  choose  what  is  dearest  to  his 
heart,  whatever  that  may  be,  and  he  will  no 
doubt  instinctively  eliminate  from  his  life 
the  joys  which  are  most  clouded  by  dis- 
satisfaction. If  he  sets  affection  aside  for 
the  sake  of  ambition,  and  then  finds  that  the 
thought  of  the  love  he  has  slighted  or  dis- 


Renunciation  237 

regarded  wounds  and  pains  him,  he  will 
retrace  his  steps ;  if  he  sees  that  his  ambitions 
leave  him  no  time  for  his  enjoyment  of  art 
or  nature,  and  finds  his  success  embittered 
by  the  loss  of  those  other  enjoyments,  he 
will  curb  his  ambition;  but  in  all  this  he  will 
not  act  anxiously  and  wretchedly.  He  will 
be  rather  like  a  man  who  has  two  simul- 
tahcous  pleasures  offered  him,  one  of  which 
must  exclude  the  other.  He  will  not  spoil 
both,  but  take  what  he  desires  most,  and 
think  no  more  of  what  he  rejects. 

The  more  that  such  a  man  loves  life,  the 
less  is  he  likely  to  be  deceived  by  the  shows 
of  life;  the  more  wisely  will  he  judge  what 
part  of  it  is  worth  keeping,  and  the  less  will 
he  be  tempted  by  anything  which  distracts 
him  from  life  itself.  It  is  fulness  of  life, 
after  all,  that  he  is  aiming  at,  and  not  va- 
cuity; and  thus  renunciation  becomes  not  a 
feeble  withdrawal  from  life,  but  a  vigorous 
affirmation  of  the  worth  of  it. 

But  of  course  we  cannot  all  expect  to  deal 
with   life  on   this  high-handed   scale.     The 


238  Progress 

question  is  what  most  of  us,  who  feel  our- 
selves sadly  limited,  incomplete,  fractious, 
discontented,  fitful,  unequal  to  the  claims 
upon  us,  should  do.  If  we  have  no  sense  of 
eager  adv^enturc,  but  are  afraid  of  life,  over- 
shadowed by  doubts  and  anxieties,  with  no 
great  spring  of  pleasure,  no  passionate  emo- 
tions, no  very  definite  ambitions,  what  are 
we  then  to  do?  * 

Or  perhaps  our  case  is  even  worse  than 
that;  we  are  meanly  desirous  of  comfort, 
of  untroubled  ease,  we  have  a  secret  love 
of  low  pleasures,  a  desire  to  gain  rather 
than  to  deserve  admiration  and  respect,  a 
temptation  to  fortify  ourselves  against  life 
by  accumulating  all  sorts  of  resources,  with 
no  particular  wish  to  share  anything,  but 
aiming  to  be  left  alone  in  a  circle  which  we 
can  bend  to  our  will  and  make  useful  to  us; 
that  is  the  hard  case  of  many  men  and 
women;  and  even  if  by  glimpses  we  see  that 
there  is  a  finer  and  a  freer  life  outside,  we 
may  not  be  conscious  of  any  real  desire  to 
issue  from  our  stuffy  parlour. 


The  Rising  Wall  239 

In  either  case  our  duty  and  our  one  hope 
is  clear:  that  we  have  got  somehow,  at  all 
costs  and  hazard,  to  find  our  way  into  the 
light  of  day.  It  is  such  as  these,  the  anxious 
and  the  fearful  on  the  one  hand,  the  gross 
and  sensual  on  the  other,  who  need  most  of 
all  a  Joyous  Card  of  their  own.  Because 
we  are  coming  to  the  light,  as  Walt  Whitman 
so  splendidly  says: — "The  Lord  advances 
and  yet  advances  .  .  .  always  the  shadow 
in  front,  always  the  reach'd  hand  bringing 
up  the  laggards." 

Our  business,  if  we  know  that  we  are  lag- 
gards, if  we  only  dimly  suspect  it,  is  not  to 
fear  the  shadow,  but  to  seize  the  outstretched 
hands.  We  must  grasp  the  smallest  clue 
that  leads  out  of  the  dark,  the  resolute  fight 
with  some  slovenly  and  ugly  habit,  the  tell- 
ing of  our  mean  troubles  to  some  one  whose 
energy  we  admire  and  whose  disapproval 
we  dread;  we  must  try  the  experiment, 
make  the  plunge;  all  at  once  we  realise 
that  the  foundations  are  laid,  that  the  wall 
is  beginning  to  rise  above  the  rubbish  and 


240  Progress 

the  debris;  we  must  build  a  home  for  the 
new-found  joy,  even  if  as  yet  it  only  sings 
drowsily  and  faintly  within  our  hearts,  like 
the  awaking  bird  in  the  dewy  thicket,  when 
the  fingers  of  the  dawn  begin  to  raise  the 
curtain  of  the  night. 


XXV 

THE  SENSE  OF    BEAUTY 

There  is  one  difficulty  which  stands  at  the 
threshold  of  dealing  with  the  sense  of  beauty 
so  as  to  give  it  due  importance  and  pre- 
ponderance, and  that  is  it  seems  with  many 
people  to  be  so  frail  a  thing,  and  to  visit 
the  mind  only  as  the  last  grace  of  a  mood 
of  perfect  serenity  and  well-being.  Many 
people,  and  those  not  the  least  thoughtful 
and  intelligent,  find  by  experience  that  it  is 
almost  the  first  thing  to  disappear  in  moments 
of  stress  and  pressure.  Physical  pain,  grief, 
preoccupation,  business,  anxiety,  all  seem 
to  have  the  power  of  quenching  it  instanta- 
neously, until  one  is  apt  to  feel  that  it  is 
a  thing  of  infinite  delicacy  and  tenderness, 
and  can  only  co-exist  with  a  tranquillity 
which  it  is  hard  in  life  to  secure.     The  result 

16  241 


242         The  Sense  of  Beauty 

of  this  no  doubt  is  that  many  active-minded 
and  forcible  people  are  ready  to  think  little 
of  it,  and  just  regard  it  as  a  mood  that  may 
accompany  a  well-earned  holiday,  and  even 
so  to  be  sparingly  indulged. 

It  is  also  undoubtedly  true  that  in  many 
robust  and  energetic  people  the  sense  of 
what  is  beautiful  is  so  far  atrophied  that 
it  can  be  roused  only  by  scenes  and  places 
of  almost  melodramatic  picturesqueness, 
by  ancient  buildings  clustered  on  craggy 
eminences,  great  valleys  with  the  frozen 
horns  of  mountains,  wind-ravaged  and  snow- 
streaked,  peering  over  forest  edges,  the 
thunder  and  splendour  of  great  sea-breakers 
plunging  landward  under  rugged  headlands 
and  clifT-fronts.  But  all  this  pursuit  of  sen- 
sational beauty  is  to  mistake  its  quality;  the 
moment  it  is  thus  pursued  it  ceases  to  be 
the  milk  and  honey  of  life,  and  it  becomes 
a  kind  of  stimulant  which  excites  rather 
than  tranquillises.  I  do  not  mean  that  one 
should  of  set  purpose  avoid  the  sight  of 
wonderful  prospects  and  treasure-houses  of 


Familiar  Scenes  243 

art,  or  act  as  the  poet  Gray  did  when  he 
was  travelling  with  Horace  Walpole  in  the 
Alps,  when  they  drew  up  the  blinds  of  their 
carriage  to  exclude  the  sight  of  such  pro- 
digious and  unmanning  horrors! 

Still,  I  think  that  if  one  is  on  the  right 
track,  and  if  beauty  has  its  due  place  and 
value  in  life,  there  will  be  less  and  less 
im'pulse  to  go  far  afield  for  it,  in  search  of 
something  to  thrill  the  dull  perception  and 
quicken  it  into  life.  I  believe  that  people 
ought  to  be  content  to  live  most  of  their 
lives  in  the  same  place,  and  to  grow  to  love 
familiar  scenes.  Familiarity  with  a  scene 
ought  not  to  result  in  the  obliteration  of  all 
consciousness  of  it:  one  ought  rather  to  find 
in  use  and  affection  and  increased  power 
of  subtle  interpretation,  a  closer  and  finer 
understanding  of  the  qualities  which  under- 
lie the  very  simplest  of  English  landscapes. 
I  live,  myself,  for  most  of  the  year  in  a 
countryside  that  is  often  spoken  of  by  its 
inhabitants  as  dull,  tame,  and  featureless; 
yet  I  cannot  say  with  what  daily  renewal 


244         The  Sense  of  Beauty 

of  delight  I  wander  in  the  pastoral  Cam- 
bridge landscape,  with  its  long  low  lines 
of  wold,  its  white  walled,  straw- thatched 
villages  embowered  in  orchards  and  elms, 
its  slow  willow-bound  streams,  its  level 
fenland,  with  the  far-seen  cloud-banks 
looming  overhead:  or  again  in  the  high- 
ridged,  well-wooded  land  of  Sussex,  where 
I  often  live,  the  pure  lines  di  the  distant 
downs  seen  over  the  richly  coloured  inter- 
vening weald  grow  daily  more  dear  and 
intimate,  and  appeal  more  and  more  closely 
to  the  deepest  secrets  of  sweetness  and 
delight.  For  as  we  train  ourselves  to  the 
perception  of  beauty,  we  become  more  and 
more  alive  to  a  fine  simplicity  of  effect;  we 
find  the  lavish  accumulation  of  rich  and  mag- 
nificent glories  bewildering  and  distracting. 
And  this  is  the  same  with  other  arts;  we 
no  longer  crave  to  be  dazzled  and  flooded 
by  passionate  and  exciting  sensation,  we 
care  less  and  less  for  studied  mosaics  of 
word  and  thought,  and  more  and  more  for 
clearness  and  form  and  economy  and  aus- 


Austerity  in  Art  245 

terity.     Restless    exuberance    becomes    un- 
welcome,   complexity   and   intricacy   weary 
us ;  we  begin  to  perceive  the  beauty  of  what 
Fitzgerald  called  the    "great   still   books." 
We  do  not  desire  a  kaleidoscopic  pageant  of 
blending  and  colliding  emotions,  but  crave 
for     something     distinctly     seen,     entirely 
grasped,  perfectly   developed.     Because   we 
are  no  longer  in  search  of  something  stimu- 
lating and  exciting,  something  to  make  us 
glide  and  dart  among  the  surge  and  spray 
of:  life,  but  what  we  crave  for  is  rather  a 
calm  and  reposeful  absorption  in  a  thought 
which  can  yield  us  all  its  beauty,  and  assure 
us  of  the  existence  of  a  principle  in  which 
we  can  rest  and  abide.     As  life  goes  on,  we 
ought  not  to  find  relief  from  tedium  only 
in  a  swift  interchange  and  multiplication  of 
sensations;    we    ought    rather    to    attain    a 
simple   and   sustained  joyfulness  which  can 
find  nurture  in  homely  and  familiar  things. 

If  again  the  sense  of  beauty  is  so  frail  a 
thing  that  it  is  at  the  mercy  of  all  intruding 
and  jarring  elements,  it  is  also  one  of  the 


246         The  Sense  of  Beauty 

most  patient  and  persistent  of  quiet  forces. 
Like  the  darting  fly  which  we  scare  from  us, 
it  returns  again  and  again  to  settle  on  the 
spot  which  it  has  chosen.  There  are,  it  is 
true,  troubled  and  anxious  hours  when  the 
beauty  round  us  seems  a  cruel  and  intrusive 
thing,  mocking  us  with  a  peace  which  we 
cannot  realise,  and  torturing  us  with  the 
reminder  of  the  joy  we  have*  lost.  There 
are  days  when  the  only  way  to  forget  our 
misery  is  to  absorb  ourselves  in  some  practi- 
cal energy;  but  that  is  because  we  have  not 
learned  to  love  beauty  in  the  right  way. 
If  we  have  only  thought  of  it  as  a  pleasant 
ingredient  in  our  cup  of  joy,  as  a  thing  which 
we  can  use  just  as  we  can  use  wine,  to  give  us 
an  added  flush  of  unreasonable  content,  then 
it  will  fail  us  when  we  need  it  most.  When  a 
man  is  under  the  shadow  of  a  bereavement, 
he  can  test  for  himself  how  he  has  used  love. 
If  he  finds  that  the  loving  looks  and  words 
and  caresses  of  those  that  are  left  to  him  are 
a  mere  torture  to  him,  then  he  has  used  love 
wrongly,    just    as    a    selfish    and    agreeable 


The  Message  of  Beauty      247 

delight ;  but  if  he  finds  strength  and  comfort 
in  the  yearning  sympathy  of  friend  and 
beloved,  reassurance  in  the  strength  of  the 
love  that  is  left  him,  and  confidence  in  the 
indestructibility  of  affection,  then  he  has 
used  love  wisely  and  purely,  loving  it  for 
itself,  for  its  beauty  and  holiness,  and  not 
only  for  the  warmth  and  comfort  it  has 
brought  him. 

So,  if  we  have  loved  beauty  well,  have 
seen  in  it  a  promise  of  ultimate  joy,  a  sign 
of;  a  deliberate  intention,  a  message  from  a 
power  that  does  not  send  sorrow  and  anxiety 
wantonly,  cruelly  and  indifferently,  an  assur- 
ance of  something  that  waits  to  welcome 
and  bless  us,  then  beauty  is  not  a  mere 
torturing  menace,  a  heartless  and  unkind 
parading  of  joy  which  we  cannot  feel,  but 
a  faithful  pledge  of  something  secure  and 
everlasting,  which  will  return  to  us  again 
and  again  in  ever  fuller  measure,  even  if  the 
flow  of  it  be  sometimes  suspended. 

We  ought  then  to  train  and  practise  our 
sense  of  beauty,  not  selfishly  and  luxuriously. 


248         The  Sense  of  Beauty 

but  so  that  when  the  dark  hour  comes  it  may 
help  us  to  realise  that  all  is  not  lost,  may 
alleviate  our  pain  by  giving  us  the  know- 
ledge that  the  darkness  is  the  interruption, 
but  that  the  joy  is  permanent  and  deep  and 
certain. 

Thus  beauty,  instead  of  being  for  us  but 
as  the  melody  swiftly  played  when  our 
hearts  are  high,  a  mere  momentary  ray, 
a  happy  accident  that  befalls  us,  may 
become  to  us  a  deep  and  vital  spring  of 
love  and  hope,  of  which  we  may  say  that 
it  is  there  waiting  for  us,  like  the  home  that 
awaits  the  traveller  over  the  weary  upland 
at  the  foot  of  the  far-looming  hill.  It  may 
come  to  us  as  a  perpetual  sign  that  we  are 
not  forgotten,  and  that  the  joy  of  which  it 
makes  mention  survives  all  interludes  of 
strife  and  uneasiness.  It  is  easy  to  slight 
and  overlook  it,  but  if  we  do  that,  we  are 
deluded  by  the  passing  storm  into  believing 
that  confusion  and  not  peace  is  the  end. 
As  George  Meredith  nobly  wrote,  during 
the  tragic  and  fatal  illness  of  his  wife,  "  Here 


Further  Brightness  249 

I  am  in  the  very  pits  of  tragic  life.  .  .  . 
Happily  for  me,  I  have  learned  to  live  much 
in  the  spirit,  and  see  brightness  on  the  other 
side  of  life,  otherwise  this  running  of  my 
poor  doe  with  the  inextricable  arrow  in  her 
flanks  would  pull  me  down  too."  The 
spirit,  the  brightness  of  the  other  side,  that 
is  the  secret  which  beauty  can  communicate, 
and  the  message  which  she  bears  upon  her 
radiant  wings. 


XXVI 

THE    PRINCIPLE    OF    BEAUTY 

"  I  HAVE  loved, "  said  Keats,  "  the  principle  of 
beauty  in  all  things."  It  is  that  to  which 
all  I  have  said  has  been  leading,  as  many 
roads  unite  in  one.  We  must  try  to  use  dis- 
crimination, not  to  be  so  optimistic  that 
we  see  beauty  if  it  is  not  there,  not  to  over- 
whelm every  fling  that  every  craftsman  has 
at  beauty  with  gush  and  panegyric;  not  to 
praise  beauty  in  all  companies,  or  to  go  off 
like  a  ripe  broom-pod,  at  a  touch.'  When 
Walter  Pater  was  confronted  with  something 
which  courtesy  demanded  that  he  should 
seem  to  admire,  he  used  to  say  in  that  soft 
voice  of  his,  which  lingered  over  emphatic 
syllables,  "Very  costly,  no  doubt!" 

But  we  must  be  generous  to  all  beautiful 
intention,    and    quick    to    see    any    faintest 

-'50 


The  Use  of  Beauty  251 

beckoning  of  the  divine  quality;  and  indeed 
I  would  not  have  most  people  aim  at  too 
critical  an  attitude,  for  I  believe  it  is  more 
important  to  enjoy  than  to  appraise;  still 
we  must  keep  the  principle  in  sight,  and  not 
degenerate  into  mere  collectors  of  beautiful 
impressions.  If  we  simply  try  to  wallow  in 
beauty,  we  are  using  it  sensually;  while  if 
on  the  other  hand  we  aim  at  correctness  of 
taste,  which  is  but  the  faculty  of  sincere 
concurrence  with  the  artistic  standards  of 
the  day,  we  come  to  a  sterile  connoisseur- 
sViip  which  has  no  living  inspiration  about  it. 
It  is  the  temperate  use  of  beauty  which  we 
must  aim  at,  and  a  certain  candour  of  obser- 
vation, looking  at  all  things,  neither  that  we 
may  condemn  if  we  can,  nor  that  we  may 
luxuriously  abandon  ourselves  to  sensation, 
but  that  we  may  draw  from  contemplation 
something  of  the  inner  light  of  life. 

I  have  not  here  said  much  about  the  arts 
— music,  sculpture,  painting,  architecture — 
because  I  do  not  want  to  recommend  any 
specialisation   in  beauty.     I   know,   indeed. 


252       The  Principle  of  Beauty 

several  high-minded  people,  diligent,  un- 
original, faithful,  who  have  begun  by  re- 
cognising in  a  philosophical  way  the  worth 
and  force  of  beauty,  but  who,  having  no 
direct  instinct  for  it,  have  bemused  them- 
selves by  conventional  and  conscientious 
study,  into  the  belief  that  they  are  on  the 
track  of  beauty  in  art,  when  they  have  no 
real  appreciation  of  it  at  all,  no<ippetite  for 
it,  but  are  only  bent  on  perfecting  tempera- 
ment, and  whose  unconscious  motive  has 
been  but  a  fear  of  not  being  in  sympathy 
with  men  whose  ardour  they  admire,  but 
whose  love  of  beauty  they  do  not  really 
share.  Such  people  tend  to  gravitate  to 
early  Italian  painting,  because  of  its  historical 
associations,  and  because  it  can  be  cate- 
gorically studied.  They  become  what  is 
called  "purists,"  which  means  little  more 
than  a  learned  submissiveness.  In  litera- 
ture they  are  found  to  admire  Carlyle, 
Ruskin,  and  Browning,  not  because  of  their 
method  of  treating  thought,  but  because  of 
the  ethical  maxims  imbedded — as  though  one 


The  Right  Angle  253 

were  to  love  a  conserve  of  plums  for  the 
sake  of  the  stones! 

One  should  love  great  writers  and  great 
artists  not  because  of  their  great  thoughts — 
there  are  plenty  of  inferior  writers  who 
traffic  in  great  thoughts — but  because  great 
artists  and  writers  are  the  people  who  can 
irradiate  with  a  heavenly  sort  of  light  com- 
rnon  thoughts  and  motives,  so  as  to  show 
the  beauty  which  underlies  them  and  the 
splendour  that  breaks  from  them.  It  is 
possible  to  treat  fine  thoughts  in  a  heavy 
way  so  as  to  deprive  them  of  all  their  rarity 
and  inspiration.  The  Gospel  contains  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  thoughts  in  the  world, 
beautiful  because  they  are  common  thoughts 
which  everyone  recognises  to  be  true,  yet  set 
in  a  certain  light,  just  as  the  sunset  with  its 
level,  golden,  remote  glow  has  the  power  of 
transfiguring  a  familiar  scene  with  a  glory  of 
mystery  and  desire.  But  one  has  but  to  turn 
over  a  volume  of  dull  sermons,  or  the  pages 
of  a  dreary  commentary,  to  find  the  thoughts 
of  the  Gospel  transformed  into  something 


254       The  Principle  of  Beauty 

that  seems  commonplace  and  uninspiring. 
The  beauty  of  ordinary  things  depends  upon 
the  angle  at  which  you  see  them  and  the 
light  which  falls  upon  them;  and  the  work 
of  the  great  artist  and  the  great  writer  is  to 
show  things  at  the  right  angle,  and  to  shut 
off  the  confusing  muddled  cross-lights  which 
conceal  the  quality  of  the  thing  seen. 

The  recognition  of  the  principle  of  beauty 
lies  in  the  assurance  that  many  things  have 
beauty,  if  rightly  viewed,  and  in  the  deter- 
mination to  see  things  in  the  true  light. 
Thus  the  soul  that  desires  to  see  beauty  must 
begin  by  believing  it  to  be  there,  must 
expect  to  see  it,  must  watch  for  it,  must  not 
be  discouraged  by  those  who  do  not  see  it, 
and  least  of  all  give  heed  to  those  who  would 
forbid  one  to  discern  it  except  in  definite 
and  approved  forms.  The  worst  of  aesthetic 
prophets  is  that,  like  the  Scribes,  they  make 
a  fence  about  the  law,  and  try  to  convert  the 
search  for  principle  into  the  accumulation  of 
detailed  tenets. 

Let  us  then  never  attempt  to  limit  beauty 


Beauty  of  Life  255 

to  definite  artistic  lines;  that  is  the  mistake 
of  the  superstitious  formahst  who  Hmits 
divine  influences  to  certain  sanctuaries  and 
fixed  ceremonials.  The  use  of  the  sanctuary 
and  the  ceremonial  is  only  to  concentrate  at 
one  fiery  point  the  wide  current  of  impulsive 
ardour.  The  true  lover  of  beauty  will  await 
it  everywhere,  will  see  it  in  the  town,  with 
its  rising  roofs  and  its  bleached  and  black- 
ened steeples,  in  the  seaport  with  its  quaint 
crowded  shipping,  in  the  clustered  hamlet 
with  its  orchard-closes  and  high-roofed  barns, 
in  the  remote  country  with  its  wide  fields  and 
its  converging  lines,  in  the  beating  of  the 
sea  on  shingle-bank  and  promontory;  and 
then  if  he  sees  it  there,  he  will  see  it  con- 
centrated and  emphasised  in  pictures  of 
these  things,  the  beauty  of  which  lies  so 
often  in  the  sense  of  the  loving  apprehension 
of  the  mystery  of  lights  and  hues;  and  then 
he  will  trace  the  same  subtle  spirit  in  the 
forms  and  gestures  and  expressions  of  those 
among  whom  he  lives,  and  will  go  deeper 
yet  and  trace  the  same  spirit  in  conduct  and 


256       The  Principle  of  Beauty 

behaviour,  in  the  free  and  gallant  handling 
of  Hfe,  in  the  suppression  of  mean  personal 
desires,  in  doing  dull  and  disagreeable  things 
with  a  fine  end  in  view,  in  the  noble  afifection 
of  the  simplest  people;  until  he  becomes 
aware  that  it  is  a  quality  which  runs  through 
everything  he  sees  or  hears  or  feels,  and 
that  the  eternal  difference  is  whether  one 
views  things  dully  and  stupidly,  regarding 
the  moment  hungrily  and  greedily,  as  a  dog 
regards  a  plateful  of  food,  or  whether  one 
looks  at  it  all  as  a  process  which  has  some 
fine  and  distant  end  in  view,  and  sees  that  all 
experience,  whether  it  be  of  things  tangible 
and  visible,  or  of  things  intellectual  and 
spiritual,  is  only  precious  because  it  carries 
one  forward,  forms,  moulds,  and  changes 
one  with  a  hope  of  some  high  and  pure 
resurrection  out  of  things  base  and  hurried 
into  things  noble  and  serene. 

The  need,  the  absolute  need  for  all  and 
each  of  us,  is  to  find  something  strong  and 
great  to  rest  and  repose  upon.  Otherwise 
one  simply  falls  back  on  the  fact  that  one 


The  Clearer  Vision  257 

exists  and  on  the  whole  enjoys  existing, 
while  one  shuns  the  pain  and  darkness  of 
ceasing  to  exist.  As  life  goes  on,  there 
comes  such  an  impulse  to  say,  "Life  is 
attractive  and  might  be  pleasant,  but  there 
is  always  something  shadowing  it,  spoiling 
it,  gnawing  at  it,  a  worm  in  the  bud,  of 
which  one  cannot  be  rid. "  And  so  one  sinks 
into  a  despairing  apathy. 

What  then  is  one  born  for?  Just  to  live 
and  forget,  to  be  hurt  and  healed,  to  be 
strong  and  grow  weak?  That  as  the  spirit 
falls  into  faintness,  the  body  should  curdle 
into  worse  than  dust?  To  give  each  a 
memory  of  things  sharp  and  sweet,  that  no 
one  else  remembers,  and  then  to  destroy 
that? 

No,  that  is  not  the  end !     The  end  is  rather 

to  live  fully  and  ardently,  to  recognise  the 

indestructibility   of   the   spirit,   to   strip   off 

from  it  all  that  wounds  and  disables  it,  not 

by  drearily  toiling  against  haunting  faults, 

but  by  rising  as  often  as  we  can  into  serene 

ardour  and  deep  hopefulness.     That  is  the 
17 


258       The  Principle  of  Beauty 

principle  of  beauty,  to  feel  that  there  is 
something  transforming  and  ennobUng  us, 
which  we  can  lay  hold  of  if  we  wish,  and 
that  every  time  we  see  the  great  spirit  at 
work  and  clasp  it  close  to  our  feeble  will, 
we  soar  a  step  higher  and  see  all  things  with 
a  wider  and  a  clearer  vision. 


XXVII 

LIFE 

But  in  all  this,  and  indeed  beyond  all  this, 
we  must  not  dare  to  forget  one  thing;  that 
it  is  life  with  which  we  are  confronted,  and 
that  our  business  is  to  live  it,  and  to  live  it 
in  our  own  way;  and  here  we  may  thank- 
fully  rejoice  that  there  is  less  and  less  ten- 
dency in  the  world  for  people  to  dictate 
modes  of  life  to  us;  the  tyrant  and  the 
despot  are  not  only  out  of  date — they  are 
out  of  fashion,  which  is  a  far  more  disabling 
thing!  There  is  of  course  a  type  of  person 
in  the  world  who  loves  to  call  himself  robust 
and  even  virile — heaven  help  us  to  break 
down  that  bestial  ideal  of  manhood! — who 
is  of  the  stuff  of  which  all  bullies  have  been 
made  since  the  world  began,  a  compound 
of  courage,  stupidity,  and  complacency;  to 

259 


26o  Life 

whom  the  word  "living"  has  no  meaning, 
unless  it  implies  the  disturbing  and  dis- 
quieting of  other  people.  We  are  gradually- 
putting  him  in  his  right  place,  and  the 
kindlier  future  will  have  little  need  of  him; 
because  a  sense  is  gradually  shaping  itself  in 
the  world  that  life  is  best  lived  on  peaceful 
and  orderly  lines. 

But  if  the  robust  mveur  is  or  the  wrong 
tack,  so  long  as  he  grabs  and  uses,  and 
neither  gives  nor  is  used,  so  too  the  more 
peaceable  and  poetical  nature  makes  a  very 
similar  mistake,  if  his  whole  heart  is  bent 
upon  receiving  and  enjoying;  for  he  too  is 
filching  and  conveying  away  pleasure  out 
of  life,  though  he  may  do  it  more  timidly 
and  unobtrusively.  Such  a  man  or  woman 
is  apt  to  make  too  much  out  of  the  occasions 
and  excitements  of  life,  to  over-value  the 
aesthetic  kind  of  success,  which  is  the  delicate 
impressing  of  other  people,  claiming  their 
admiration  and  applause,  and  being  ill- 
content  if  one  is  not  noticed  and  praised. 
Such  an  one  is  apt  to  overlook  the  common 


The  Stuff  of  Life  261 

stuff  and  use  of  life — the  toil,  the  endurance, 
the  discipline  of  it;  to  flutter  abroad  only 
on  sunshiny  days,  and  to  sit  sullenly  with 
folded  wing  when  the  sky  breaks  into  rain 
and  chilly  winds  are  blowing.  The  man 
who  lives  thus,  is  in  danger  of  over-valuing 
the  raptures  and  thrills  of  life,  of  being  fitful 
and  moody  and  fretful;  what  he  has  to  do 
is  to  spread  serenity  over  his  days,  and 
above  all  to  be  ready  to  combine,  to  minister, 
to  sympathise,  to  serve.  Joyous  Card  is  a 
.very  perilous  place,  if  we  grow  too  indolent 
to  leave  it;  the  essence  of  it  is  refreshment 
and  not  continuance.  There  are  two  con- 
ditions attached  to  the  use  of  it :  one  is  that 
we  should  have  our  own  wholesome  work 
in  the  world,  and  the  second  that  we  should 
not  grow  too  wholly  absorbed  in  labour. 

No  great  moral  leaders  and  inspirers  of 
men  have  ever  laid  stress  on  excessive 
labour.  They  have  accepted  work  as  one 
of  the  normal  conditions  of  life,  but  their 
whole  effort  has  been  to  teach  men  to  look 
away  from  work,  to  find  leisure  to  be  happy 


262  Life 

and  good.  There  is  no  essential  merit  in 
work,  apart  from  its  necessity.  Of  course 
men  may  find  themselves  in  positions  where 
it  seems  hard  to  avoid  a  fierce  absorption 
in  work.  It  is  said  by  legislators  that  the 
House  of  Commons,  for  instance,  is  a  place 
where  one  can  neither  work  nor  rest !  And  I 
have  heard  busy  men  in  high  administrative 
office,  deplore  rhetorically  the*  fact  that 
they  have  no  time  to  read  or  think.  It  is 
almost  as  unwholesome  never  to  read  or 
think  as  it  is  to  be  always  reading  and 
thinking,  because  the  light  and  the  inspira- 
tion fade  out  of  life,  and  leave  one  a  gaunt 
and  wolfish  lobbyist,  who  goes  about  seeking 
whom  he  may  indoctrinate.  But  I  have 
little  doubt  that  when  the  world  is  organised 
on  simpler  lines,  we  shall  look  back  to  this 
era,  as  an  era  when  men's  heads  were  turned 
by  work,  and  when  more  unnecessary  things 
were  made  and  done  and  said  than  has  ever 
been  the  case  since  the  world  began. 

The  essence  of  happy  living  is  never  to 
find  life  dull,  never  to  feel  the  ugly  weari- 


Freshness  263 

ness  which  comes  of  overstrain;  to  be  fresh, 
cheerful,  leisurely,  sociable,  unhurried,  well- 
balanced.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  be  these  things  unless  we  have  time 
to  consider  life  a  little,  to  deliberate,  to  select, 
to  abstain.  We  must  not  help  ourselves 
either  to  work  or  to  joy  as  if  we  were  help- 
ing ourselves  to  potatoes!  If  life  ought 
not  to  be  perpetual  drudgery,  neither  can 
it  be  a  perpetual  feast.  What  I  believe  we 
ought  to  aim  at  is  to  put  interest  and  zest 
into  the  simplest  acts,  words,  and  relations 
of  life,  to  discern  the  quality  of  work  and 
people  alike.  We  must  not  turn  our  whole 
minds  and  hearts  to  literature  or  art  or 
work,  or  even  to  religion;  but  we  must  go 
deeper,  and  look  close  at  life  itself,  which 
these  interpret  and  out  of  which  they  flow. 
For  indeed  life  is  nobler  and  richer  than  any 
one  interpretation  of  it.  Let  us  take  for  a 
moment  one  of  the  great  interpreters  of  life, 
Robert  Browning,  who  was  so  intensely 
interested  above  all  things  in  personality. 
The  charm  of  his  writing  is  that  he  con- 


264  Life 

trives,  by  some  fine  instinct,  to  get  behind 
and  within  the  people  of  whom  he  writes, 
sees  with  their  eyes,  hears  with  their  ears, 
though  he  speaks  with  his  own  Hps.  But 
one  must  observe  that  the  judgment  of  none 
of  his  characters  is  a  final  judgment;  the 
artist,  the  lover,  the  cynic,  the  charlatan, 
the  sage,  the  priest — they  none  of  them 
provide  a  solution  to  life;  they  set  out  on 
their  quest,  they  make  their  guesses,  they 
reveal  their  aims,  but  they  never  penetrate 
the  inner  secret.  It  is  all  inference  and 
hope;  Browning  himself  seems  to  believe 
in  life,  not  because  of  the  reasons  which 
his  characters  give  for  believing  in  it,  but 
in  spite  of  all  their  reasons.  Like  little 
boats,  the  reasons  seem  to  strand  one  by 
one,  some  sooner,  some  later,  on  the  sands 
beneath  the  shallow  sea;  and  then  the  great 
serene  large  faith  of  the  poet  comes  flooding 
in,  and  bears  them  on  their  way. 

It  is  somewhat  thus  that  we  must  deal 
with  life;  it  is  no  good  making  up  a  philo- 
sophy which  just  keeps  us  gay  when  all  is 


Animation  265 

serene  and  prosperous.  Unpleasant,  te- 
dious, vexing,  humiliating,  painful,  shatter- 
ing things  befall  us  all  by  the  way.  That  is 
the  test  of  our  belief  in  life,  if  nothing  daunts 
us,  if  nothing  really  mars  our  serenity  of 
mood. 

And  so  what  this  little  book  of  mine  tries 
to  recommend  is  that  we  should  bestir  our- 
selves to  design,  plan,  use,  practise  life;  not 
drift  helplessly  on  its  current,  shouting  for 
joy  when  all  is  bright,  helplessly  bemoaning 
ourselves  when  all  is  dark;  and  that  we 
should  do  this  by  guarding  ourselves  from 
impulse  and  whim,  by  feeding  our  minds 
and  hearts  on  all  the  great  words,  high 
examples,  patient  endurances,  splendid  acts, 
of  those  whom  we  recognise  to  have  been 
the  finer  sort  of  men.  One  of  the  greatest 
blessings  of  our  time  is  that  we  can  do  that 
so  easily.  In  the  dullest,  most  monotonous 
life  we  can  stay  ourselves  upon  this  heavenly 
manna,  if  we  have  the  mind.  We  need  not 
feel  alone  or  misunderstood  or  unappre- 
ciated, even  if  we  are  surrounded  by  harsh, 


266  Life 

foolish,  dry,  discontented,  mournful  persons. 
The  world  is  fuller  now  than  it  ever  was  of 
brave  and  kindly  people  who  will  help  us 
if  we  ask  for  help.  Of  course  if  we  choose 
to  perish  without  a  struggle,  we  can  do  that. 
And  my  last  word  of  advice  to  people  into 
whose  hands  this  book  may  fall,  who  are 
suffering  from  a  sense  of  dim  failure,  timid 
bewilderment,  with  a  vague  desire  in  the 
background  to  make  something  finer  and 
stronger  out  of  life,  is  to  turn  to  some  one 
whom  they  can  trust — not  intending  to 
depend  constantly  and  helplessly  upon  them 
— and  to  get  set  in  the  right  road. 

Of  course,  as  I  have  said,  care  and  sorrow, 
heaviness  and  sadness — even  disillusion- 
ment— must  come;  but  the  reason  of  that 
is  because  we  must  not  settle  too  close  to 
the  sweet  and  kindly  earth,  but  be  ready 
to  unfurl  our  wings  for  the  passage  over 
sea;  and  to  what  new  country  of  God,  what 
unknowTi  troops  and  societies  of  human 
spirits,  what  gracious  reality  of  dwelling- 
place,  of  which  our  beloved  fields  and  woods 


Beyond  267 

and  streams  are  nothing  but  the  gentle  and 
sweet  symbols,  our  flight  may  bear  us,  I 
cannot  tell ;  but  that  we  are  all  in  the  mind 
of  God,  and  that  we  cannot  wander  beyond 
the  reach  of  His  hand  or  the  love  of  His 
heart,  of  this  I  am  more  sure  than  I  am 
of  anything  else  in  this  world  where 
familiarity  and  mystery  are  so  strangely 
entwined. 


THE   END 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Ma^jdalene  College,  Cambridge 

FAMILIAR  essays  are  rare,  and  far  rarer 
than  more  formal  critical  writings  of  a 
like  quality.  It  is  with  this  literary 
kind  that  Mr.  Benson's  work — the  best  of  it 
at  least — is  to  be  classed.  His  books  are  the 
frank  outpourings  of  the  author's  innermost 
thoughts,  and  treat,  in  an  easy  confidential 
manner  that  presupposes  a  single  friendly 
listener,  matters  that  "go  home  to  men's 
business  and  bosoms." 

When  the  reader  puts  down  these  delight- 
ful volumes  by  Mr.  Benson,  he  may  rest 
assured  that  he  will  do  so  with  the  feeling 
that  he  has  been  in  good  company,  and  has 
passed  his  time  with  pleasure  and  profit. 
And  finally  he  will  perhaps  be  puzzled  to 
determine  whether  he  has  been  better  pleased 
with  the  substantial  thought  of  the  book  or 
with  the  urbanity  and  gentlemanlike  ease, 
the  freshness  and  distinction  of  the  diction, 
the  fluency,  and  the  varied  cadences  that 
combine  to  make  this  new  essayist's  style  so 
charming,  and  charge  it  with  the  magnetism 
of  a  singularly  interesting  and  attractive 
personality. 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 

The  Altar  Fire 

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more  he  has  succeeded,  with  unfailing  certainty  of  touch, 
in  getting  out  of  his  study  a  remarkable  and  impressive 
effect. " — London  Chronicle. 

The  Schoolmaster 

A  Commentary  upon  the  Alms  and   ^Wthods  of  an  Assistant* 
>\astcr  In  a  Public  >chool 

A  Companion  Volume  to  "The  Upton  Letters" 

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"  The  quaint  philosophy  of  life,  keen  insight  into  human 
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inherent  in  even  the  average  "  small  boy's  "  in'her  conscious- 
ness combine  in  making  the  volume  an  agency  of  moral 
uplift  as  well  as  an  educational  inspiration." — Columbus 
Despatch. 

"  Mr.  Benson  covers  the  whole  field  of  scholastic  life 
and  everything  that  he  writes  is  a  delight  to  read." — The 
A  rgonaut. 

At  Large 

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In  the  essay  Mr.  Benson  is  at  his  best,  and  here  he  is  in 
his  best  vein.  An  atmosphere  of  rest  and  tranquil  thought- 
fulness  envelops  the  reader,  as  he  peruses  this  book  so 
full  of  sage  reflection,  humor,  shrewd  observation,  and 
serviceable  thought;  so  fluent,  accurate,  and  beautiful  in 
style ;  so  pleasingly  varied  in  cadence. 

John  Ruskin 

A  Study  in  Personality 

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thinkers,  the  most  beautiful  writers,  and  the  most  vivid 
personalities  of  the  last  generation." — From  the  Preface. 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


r 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 


The  Upton  Letters 

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a  dignified  way." — Christian  Register. 

"  A  piece  of  real  literature  of  the  highest  order,  beautiful 
and  fragrant.  To  review  the  book  adequately  is  im- 
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duced."—r/ze  Did. 

"  It  is  a  graceful,  charming  book,  lucidly  and  beautifully 
written." — N.  Y.  Sun. 

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peculiarly  delicate  kind — the  humor  of  a  Quietist.  It 
must  be  purchased,  or  you  must  borrow  it  permanently,  or 
forget  to  return  it  to  the  library." — London  Morning  Post. 


Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 


The  Leaves  of  the  Tree 

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Contents:  Bishop  Westcott.  Henry  Sidgwick.  J.  K.  Stephen, 
Bishop  Wilkinson.  Professor  Newton.  Frederick  Myers  Bishop 
Lightloot.  Henry  Bradshaw.  Matthew  Arnold,  Charles  Kingsley. 
Bishop  Wordsworth  of  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Bens<jn  presents  biographical  sketches  and  appreciations  of 
certain  distinguished  men,  each  one  of  whom,  through  his  life,  his 
character,  his  works,  and  above  all  through  personal  contact, 
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tion  for  their  graphic  word  pictures  and  with  praise  for  his  strong 
visual  powers  and  imaginative  &\fM."—Boilon  Transcript. 

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of  commonplace  and  uninteresting  duties. 

Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

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and  sentences  of  rhythmic  beauty,  su.  h  as  Bens<jn's  admirers  have 
learned  to  expect  from  the  great  Cambridge  stylist,  ' — Christian 
Advocate. 


Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


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